


wind of change

by guineaDogs, rachhell



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Drugs, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers, Gratuitous Smut, Gun play, M/M, Murder, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, Violence, conflicting ideology, craig "i shouldn't do this but i hate myself ig" tucker, kyle "i know i shouldn't do this but i'm doing it anyway" broflovski, original characters used as fodder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: As the head of Denver PD's Supercrimes Task Force, Lt. Craig Tucker is determined to get supervillains off of the streets and behind bars. Unfortunately, where the Human Kite is concerned, Tucker quickly finds himself in over his head.Please take note of the tags and archive warnings. This is a dark fic, and will include themes that are dark and uncomfortable. You've been warned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a sequel to our cryle gun play prompt on this year's [kinktober](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163711/chapters/38869814).
> 
> Alice/guineaDogs has made a playlist for this (and will probably be updated periodically). It can be found on [spotify.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0iVN5FiDlQTYZtY6rwXE0X)

It was late when he got home. The sun had long since set, and the chill in the air sank deep down into his bones. It was on nights like these that he was relieved that his apartment had indoor access, so while he still had several flights of stairs to trek, it was at least somewhat warmer than outside.   
  
His apartment was as he left it. Dark, with the exception of the light over the stove. Locking the door, he shucked off his jacket, toed off his shoes and stepped into the small kitchen. Craig picked a small bowl off of the floor, and poured kibble from a box.   
  
This night was just as always, except it  _ wasn’t. _ He could feel it in the air—something  _ off.  _ Something  _ different. _ Something that made the backs of his arms crawl with goosebumps and every follicle of his hair feel as if it were about to jump from his head.   
  
It  _ could _ be nothing, but Craig wasn’t one to shake off a feeling like that. Still, his cat needed to be fed, no matter what may or may not have been in store for Craig. Setting the dish back down, he leaned against the counter, expecting to hear the telltale sounds of his cat. The soft chiming of the bell on her collar, the sound of her knocking something off of one of the shelves as she bolted into the kitchen for her dinner.   
  
When he was met with silence, no black ball of fury running in to see him, he frowned. Craig rounded about the counter, the only divide between the kitchen and combined living and dining room.    
  
That was when he saw it. The silhouette of someone sitting on his futon, the city lights hardly enough to illuminate the intruder. Instinct overtook him—no one had a key to his apartment,  _ no one _ —and he removed his gun from its holster.    
  
"Put your hands up where I can see them," he commanded. The figure didn't respond, not verbally. Craig strained to make out the person's features in the darkness, but instead all he saw were movements that directly contradicted his orders.

They were reaching for something.   
  
A weapon? It had to be. This had to be someone hired to kill him, or even just someone who had a grudge against him. Had anyone he arrested gotten out of prison recently?   
  
His finger hovered over the trigger, and when he was  _ certain _ the intruder was intending to do the same given the chance—   
  
He pulled it.   
  
Glowing red illuminated the dark room for a split second, and the bullet fell to the hardwood floor, flattened and clattering like a penny. The lamp beside his couch flicked on, and there sat Kite. In that same stupid outfit he always seemed to wear, holding the cat in place on his lap. "That was rude, Lieutenant."

“Jesus  _ fuck, _ I could have...” Craig’s voice caught somewhere in his throat, strangling itself off into a dry, humorless laugh. He lowered his weapon, holstering it with a huff. “I  _ should _ have killed you. And I  _ could _ have hurt my fucking cat, you… you fucking  _ prick! _ Let go of Midnight.”   
  
Kite arched a brow, lip tugging into a wry grin. “You named your  _ black cat _ fucking  _ Midnight? _ Very original. Props for creativity.” Kite shifted, crossing his legs at the knee, but the cat didn’t budge. In fact, Craig could hear the familiar, faint motor of her purr from across the room.   
  
_ Traitor, _ he thought, catching her yellow eyes.    
  
“Nah. He likes me.”

_ "She," _ Craig corrected. "And you call yourself  _ the Human Kite. _ You can't talk about lack of creativity."   
  
Kite merely shrugged, and ceased petting the small animal. Midnight trotted to the kitchen for food not long afterwards. "Whatever, dude. I can fly, and I purposefully designed this," he gestured to his outfit, "to be aerodynamic. It makes  _ sense. _ Midnight is just lazy pet naming."   
  
"Is there a reason why you're here?"   
  
Kite leaned back onto the futon like he lived there, just making himself at home, draping an arm across the back of the couch with a smug smile. "You live a pretty simple life, don't you, Lieutenant? Just you, and your cat, and...." He made a sweeping gesture to the room around them, eyes trailing on the television and PS4, the computer in the corner, the bookshelf. "Not much else. Pretty pathetic, isn't it? One has to wonder what your Grindr hookups think of this place. No wonder the same man never comes back twice."   
  
Craig felt his face burn, and anger bubble in his chest. "That is absolutely none of your business, and doesn't come close to answering my question." He shifted on his feet, wanting desperately to get comfortable in his  _ own _ apartment, on his  _ own _ sofa—an impossible task, given his current, unwanted company.   
  
Kite simply shrugged, a cocky expression of forced boredom upon his face as he examined his fingernails. "I was bored," he stated, "And I  _ told _ you I know where you sleep."

"Now that you established that, you can leave." Dealing with Kite was exhausting, regardless of whether it was a standard confrontation or something  _ else _ entirely. It was difficult to say how things were going to go with Kite, until it was happening. But right now? He just wanted to relax, to catch up on his shows. Actually enjoy his Friday night.   
  
But Kite made no effort to move. "Why? Do you have another awkward hookup coming over? Or are you thinking of having some 'alone time'? I have to ask, Lieutenant, do you always fuck yourself against your wall or was it a special occasion?"   
  
That was it. Craig's icy temper boiled into something hotter. Closing the distance between them, he grabbed Kite by neck of his outfit, hoisting him to his feet. "You've been  _ spying _ on me?"   
  
Kite didn't try to pull away or otherwise break free of Craig's grip. Rather, he had the gall to appear  _ amused. _ "I'd hardly call it spying when you neglect to lower your blinds."

"You're sick," Craig said, flatly, his tone doing nothing to give away the pounding of his heart, the  _ heat _ shooting into his groin, and the pricking sensation that began at the back of his neck, sneaked down his spine, settling into this wicked, depraved  _ ache  _ all over his body. "Fucking  _ sick," _ he repeated, voice having dropped into something gruff and raw and, as much as he hated himself for even  _ acknowledging _ it, needy.   
  
Kite's arms hung at his side, the villain making no move to touch him. But, it was the way his tongue darted out to lick at his lips, slow and lascivious, the way his eyes blinked, pupils wide without a hint of red, that gave away his knowledge as to how Craig  _ really _ felt.   
  
"That a gun in your holster, or are you just happy to see me?" Kite's wet, full lips barely moved in his murmur.

Craig didn't bother containing his resist to roll his eyes at the comment. But it didn't stop the throbbing feeling in his groin nor his urge to have his hands on Kite. The villain apparently knew about his liaisons with random men, but it didn't change the fact that it had been weeks since his and Kite's paths intersected.   
  
And even now, despite everything, he couldn't deny that he wanted him. "I should arrest you," he murmured. At this point it, it was more of a private joke than anything, further proven by how he followed it up with catching Kite's lips against his own.   
  
Kite responded immediately, all teeth and roughness, hands working on loosening the knot of Craig's tie.

There  _ had _ to be a seam, somewhere, on the slick-smooth material of this man's costume, and Craig was bound and determined to find it. Kite's back was all sinewy muscle, Craig's fingers sliding thoroughly against every knot and ripple and plane of bone, clutching the other man into him as Kite deftly worked at his buttons as teeth caught on lips, pulling and gnawing, as tongues encircled one another. They were moaning, gasping,  _ both _ of them, against each other's lips but for the love of  _ god _ Craig still couldn't find a fucking  _ seam. _   
  
Nothing on his front, either, not laying on the surface of his flat, hard stomach, nor anywhere near the hip bones that stuck out just enough for Craig to sink his thumbs into them. Nowhere by his long, and hard,  _ so _ hard cock that Craig could obviously tell even through the material was cut. Really, this suit left nothing to the imagination, at  _ all _ and wasn't  _ that _ unfortunate. There had to be some  _ trick _ to it, unless the Human Kite literally sewed himself into the damn thing every evening.   
  
Craig knew, however, that he could get his hood down. He'd been thinking of those striking curls nearly nonstop for the last two weeks, wishing that during the night in the warehouse when he'd  _ finally _ seen them, that he could have touched them, buried his face in that hair and see how the other man  _ smelled _ and now...    
  
Now, he finally  _ could, _ because Kite didn't stop him when he hooked his fingers into the cowl's edges and, in one swift motion, yanked it down.

It was as if Kite knew that Craig wanted to look at him—maybe it was just coincidence—but almost as soon as the cowl had been tugged down from his head, Kite pulled back just enough from their semblance of a kiss. His hands continued working down Craig's buttons, slipping his hands under his shirt to push it over his shoulders.   
  
But he kept staring up at Craig with those bright green eyes and it was so  _ cheesy _ and so  _ fucked up _ but Craig swore he felt his heart skip a beat. He hadn't had a chance to study him this closely before, to take in his high cheekbones, the almost imperceptible dusting of freckles across them, those perfect lips.   
  
"You're beautiful." It was a mistake to say, and even as Craig was uttering those words, he knew that was the case. He just couldn't help it, couldn't keep this truth to himself, even though it had no place here, in the midst of whatever  _ this _ was.

Kite’s lips pursed into a thin line, brow drawn and eyes narrowed as he popped the button on Craig’s trousers, yanking down his zipper with calculated aggression.    
  
A  _ mistake, _ nothing more. Craig trained his eyes on the teal material covering Kite’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes for another second.   
  
“Want me to fuck you or not, Tucker,” Kite muttered, curling his fingers around the outline of Craig’s erection through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs. “‘Cause if you’re going to talk like that...”   
  
“Yeah.” Craig sighed, caught somewhere between feeling  _ embarrassed, _ utterly ashamed, and wanting to shut his eyes and moan at the contact. “I don’t... I mean I  _ do, _ but I just got off work, so, I’m not... you know, ready for  _ that. _ Not, um, at the moment.” He answered the question as best he could, deflecting everything away from what he’d confessed.

Kite's hand stilled, and the way he was looking at him, Craig was certain that he was seeing right through him. It was a strange, disarming feeling, as it wasn't often that he was on the receiving end of such scrutinization.    
  
"Your loss," Kite decided, after a moment, pushing him onto the futon. Craig offered little resistance, far too aroused, far too mortified by his slip-up to argue. Kite studied him. "I'm feeling gracious. I'll suck you off, but only if you refrain from speaking."

Craig nodded slowly, eyes drifting between Kite’s curls and the prominent outline of his erection, wanting so badly to grasp onto the other man’s hips, pull him in, and mouth at him, even through that costume. There were many things he wanted to do, many things he wanted to  _ know, _ unanswered questions bouncing like pinballs around his mind.   
  
And as Kite sank to his knees, his long-fingered hands guiding Craig’s hips up just enough to slide his underwear to his thighs, Craig could have kicked himself for his inability to keep everything inside, to do as he was  _ told. _   
  
“Tell me your name,” he blurted out, gasping as Kite thumbed at the head of his cock.

Kite glared daggers up at Craig, as if to convey the very obvious rhetorical of:  _ the fuck did I just say? _ He didn't bother saying as much, simply holding the expression as he leaned in, taking Craig's cock in his mouth.   
  
Craig's eyes fluttered at the sensation, barely able to suppress a groan as Kite wasted no time in sinking down, lips tight around him as he bobbed his head. Craig found himself torn between wanting to close his eyes, focusing slowly on the sensation, and the determination to watch Kite.   
  
The latter won out, and he couldn't resist reaching down and running his fingers through his thick curls. Kite didn't seem to object to that, at least.

His mouth was  _ perfect, _ hot and wet and taking him in deep as Kite wrapped his arms around Craig’s thighs, settling his hands firmly against his hips to anchor himself, to give himself leverage as he pulled his head back, impossibly,  _ torturously _ slow. Green eyes smoldered as Kite stared up at him, swirling his tongue around the head, as if to say,  _ try me. Call me beautiful again, I fucking _ dare  _ you. _   
  
Craig couldn’t bear to gaze into those eerily  _ knowing _ eyes for another moment. With a muted groan, he threaded his hands into Kite’s hair, massaging his thumbs against the softness of those truly beautiful curls as he all but shoved his head back down.

Kite took it like a champ. Craig was certain he felt him gag a little around him, but the other man took him in expertly, seemingly relishing in the treatment. Craig moaned unabashedly, jerking his hips upward, fucking himself deeper into Kite's mouth.    
  
"Fuck," Craig hissed, sinking back into the futon. That didn't count as talking, he was sure, because sure, Kite dig his nails into him, but he also doubled down, bobbing his head with gusto. How the hell Craig was supposed to endure this, he wasn't sure.

In one hand, Craig twisted into Kite’s hair, using the strands at the base of his neck to inch his full, perfect mouth up slightly,  _ so _ slightly, before simultaneously thrusting up, and pushing down. Kite’s throat spasmed around the head, in just a cough, a sputter, but Craig didn’t back off because neither did Kite.    
  
A whimper of a moan, something vulnerable and small like Craig never could’ve imagined would come from the other man sent vibrations along Craig’s length and shockwaves of pleasure along his spine, and Craig knew he  _ couldn’t endure it. _ Especially given that his other hand stroked gently through that mane of curls, fluffing up and disheveling hair that was once hidden beneath a hood, and the way it fuzzed around Kite’s striking face, the way it fell around his forehead was just too  _ gorgeous. _ Not to mention how those full lips stretched around Craig’s cock, how the small muscles in the other man’s throat contracted and relaxed and contracted again, tensing up on his long, pale neck and his  _ eyes... _   
  
When those shining, sultry emerald eyes locked with Craig’s, his fate was sealed. He was  _ done for. _

Kite didn't break eye contact with him, not once, not as Craig jerked his hips erratically, not as he spilled right down Kite's throat. It was hot, it was intense, and Craig regretted the moment it was completely over. As he caught his breath, keenly aware of his thrumming heartbeat all the way up to his ears, Kite pulled away, sitting back on his knees. Craig watched him swallow it all down, wipe his swollen lips with the back of his hand.   
  
For a moment, neither said anything. They always immediately parted ways, but this was different. Kite had never shown up to his place before, and whatever was between them in his very moment... Craig found himself reluctant to end it.   
  
"Kyle," Kite said, breaking the silence as he pulled his cowl back over his head. He didn't give Craig a chance to ask for clarification, or to react at all. Craig had gotten as far as to part his lips, and Kite was diving out of Craig's living room window.    
  
Instinct overtook him, and Craig was on his feet, tucking himself into his slacks as he headed to the window to peer out, to look for any side of him.    
  
There was nothing, no sight of him.   
  
And as he peered out into the cityscape, Craig couldn't help but wonder how many beautiful redheaded men named Kyle there were in the metro area.

 

* * *

  
  
_ Kyle. _   
  
The name tingled at Craig's lips all Friday night after the man flew out his apartment window, making his mouth feel like it'd been sunburned, or like he'd eaten something far spicier than he could handle, or that he'd been kissed into oblivion for  _ hours _ by someone with scratchy stubble and sharp teeth. He'd sighed it, aloud, a few times—after he'd taken a routine shower and changed into sweatpants and an old, ratty t-shirt, and flopped onto the futon, staring at the water spots on the ceiling.   
  
_ Kyle. _   
  
As he laid down into fitful, broken sleep in the middle of his double bed, pressing one extra pillow over his head to drown out the noises of bustling, after-midnight downtown Denver, and one between his legs, which he said was to help his lower back pain, but by now was more for  _ comfort _ than anything else, a poor replacement for drawing somebody close entwining his legs with another's—what would  _ that _ be like, anyway? He could barely remember.   
  
"Kyle," he whispered, just to  _ say _ it, just to feel how his tongue brushed against his teeth as he sighed his name into the still, stuffy darkness of his bedroom, and he felt really, really fucking  _ stupid. _

There was no other way around it. He  _ was  _ stupid. Of all the people could've gotten hung up on, it had to be the one person that he couldn't have. That he didn't want to have. Except he really, truly did, and that was the worst part.    
  
Because it wasn't like Kyle— _ the Human Kite _ he reminded himself—was some guy he'd met at a grocery store checkout line or some other innocuous place. He was, rather, one of the most wanted criminals in the metro area, if not the state. He was bad news, he was dangerous, he was the goddamn proverbial siren,  _ die Lorelei, _ poised to be Craig's downfall.   
  
He knew this. Craig  _ knew  _ this. He knew that he had no business craving Kyle's touch, his companionship—even if just for the night—and yet here he was. Laying in the dark, wondering what it would've been like if he'd stayed. If Kyle had let him touch him, if he could've gotten his mouth on him.   
  
Why couldn't he have just stayed?   
  
Something unpleasant and noxious boiled within him as he tossed and turned. He was just tired, he tried to convince himself. That was the only reason he felt out of his mind right now. It was late, he'd had a long week. It had nothing to do with the emptiness of his apartment, or the coldness of much of his bed.    
  
The sound of purring, the soft kneading of paws on the blanket pulled him out of his thoughts. Reaching over, stroking his thumb over Midnight's back, Craig was at least able to take solace in not being completely alone.    
  
Eventually, thankfully, he was able to sleep and put all of these feelings behind him.   
  
His Saturday went normally. Morning errands, laundry. The rest of the day spent on his futon with a cup of tea and a book. The only disruption came from Midnight's insistence in trying to fish the teabag out of his mug.    
  
Craig didn't think about Kyle, or Kite, at all. Until he did.

And, the moment it happened, he realized that not thinking of Kyle was more active, conscious avoidance than anything else. Concentrating on the words on the page, shaking his head and taking a sip of tea or petting his cat or changing the song on the music streaming on his PS4 whenever something he read or heard somehow reminded him of Kite— _ Kyle. _ Chewing on his nails and wishing he still smoked cigarettes when he thought about those cheekbones, that  _ hair. _ Munching on his fifth or sixth single-serve snack pack of pretzels when he swore he could feel some kind of phantom, residual imprint of teeth on his neck or breath on his ear which really was  _ ridiculous, _ because things like  _ that _ weren't real at all.   
  
He was just  _ stupid. _   
  
He gave in, finally, sometime around five, when a song or a phrase in his book or  _ something _ reminded him of the other man, or maybe nothing at all did, maybe he'd just been on his mind all day and he couldn't stop blocking it out. And, when he gave in, it was with fierce determination to try and  _ find him. _   
  
Well. Not  _ that _ fierce because, while Craig had access to certain databases, he'd have to explain why he was on there, from home, on his day off, searching for Kyles in the Denver area with red hair between the ages.... Craig would guess 25 and 35. And what would he say when he was inevitably asked about it?  _ Oh, well, the guy I'm having freaky, random sexual encounters with—and he's the Human Kite, by the way—is named Kyle and I'm just trying to find out who he is and where he lives so I can ask him out. _   
  
Yeah, no.  _ That _ wouldn’t fly. Facebook would have to do.

But as good as Facebook was at data mining and misinformation, its algorithm was completely useless when it came to trying to find someone when he only knew Kyle's first name. As it turned out, there were  _ hundreds _ of Kyles in the Denver metro area.    
  
Because of course Kite had to have a common name.    
  
Craig spent far too long scrolling through names and profile photos, only to find that none of them were the Kyle he was looking for. There was some part of him, that stupid  _ insane _ part, that was certain that if he just kept scrolling, just a little more, he'd find him.   
  
But after an hour, he came up with nothing.    
  
Maybe Kyle wasn't on Facebook. Maybe his settings didn't allow people to search for him. Maybe Kyle wasn't his name at all.    
  
It only made him feel more agitated, more frustrated. He switched apps, opting for one that required  _ swiping _ instead of scrolling. He didn't find Kyle.   
  
But he did find a redhead that he decided was good enough.

He was over within a couple hours, reeking of marijuana smoke and  _ Acqua di Gio _ and seemed just as disinterested in Craig's apartment as Craig was in  _ him _ as he tossed his coat on the back of one of Craig's dining chairs, leaving his snow-covered boots dripping on the floorboards, nowhere  _ close _ to the mat where they were  _ supposed _ to go. He had those ugly, clear-plastic glasses and a poorly-maintained goatee and too many freckles. The hair creeping out underneath his beanie wasn't  _ quite _ the right shade of red, and his eyes weren't  _ quite _ the right shade of green—too light, too round, too  _ bright _ —and he looked entirely too  _ chipper. _   
  
Whatever. He was tall, he was thin, and he was, objectively, pretty hot. And, he'd be gone before morning. They both knew full well why he was here.   
  
"Take your hat off," Craig said flatly, casting a glance up and down his body. Skinny jeans, a flannel, and a cardigan. How typical.

There was no preamble, no smalltalk. Craig's lips met his, his hand tangling in red hair that was merely wispy as they stumbled down the short hall to his bedroom. "Strip," Craig told him.    
  
The guy—Craig hadn't bothered to remember his name, didn't bother to ask—obliged. Those green eyes peered over at him as he shed layer upon layer of clothing until he was standing naked before him, clear as day under the overhead light.    
  
Like this, he was even more attractive. But he was a little too pale, his freckles dark in the sharp contrast. Lithe. Uncut. There were the obvious differences, and the ones Craig imagined,  _ suspected _ , to exist.    
  
But that wasn't going to stop him. If anything, this would help get Kyle out of his system, and there was no point in wasting a perfectly good erection when there was a willing body right in front of him. One that willingly closed the space between them, sliding his hands under Craig's sweatshirt, tugging it over his head while leaving a trail of soft kisses against every expanse of skin he could reach.

_ "Damn," _ the guy breathed, smiling broadly as he flattened his palm against Craig's stomach, sliding his fingers against the contours of his abs. "You work out a lot, huh?" He pulled at the drawstring of Craig's pants, using it to bring their hips close together, moaning softly, appreciatively, when their erections pressed against each other.   
  
Craig couldn't deny it felt good. He couldn't deny that this man's mouth felt fantastic on his chest, tongue darting out to lap at his nipples, the friction of his beard scratchy and  _ hot _ against Craig's bare skin. "I'm a cop," he replied, as if that explained everything, running his hands along too-bony shoulder blades as he fixed his mouth upon his neck, sucking softly.   
  
_ "Really?" _ Craig also couldn't deny that he'd said it hoping for a reaction. But, he didn't get the reaction he  _ wanted, _ exactly, when the man moaned, lowly, lapped at his collarbone and gripped his ass, hands dipping under the back of Craig's sweatpants. "God, that's so fucking  _ hot, _ man."

"You're hot." It was a lame statement, but a true one. One that was meant to distract this guy from him lingering on Craig's profession. He allowed those hands on him a little longer, before he finally pushed him toward the bed.    
  
"Get on your hands and knees," Craig told him as he fetched a condom and lube. He was glad to see the man complied, but the more the guy talked, the more Craig wished he didn't.    
  
The redhead looked over his shoulder, watching Craig slick his fingers. "You're gonna fuck me like this? So hot. I love it this way."

“Yeah,” Craig grunted, grateful that the man missed the roll of his eyes, seemingly too caught up in putting on some kind of  _ show _ for Craig, arching his back and tossing back his head in a whiny moan as Craig unceremoniously shoved his fingers inside.   
  
It was hot, he  _ supposed, _ that this guy’s perfectly hairless, flat little ass needed barely any preparation; he had to have readied himself beforehand. Craig should’ve been thankful for that but, observing the smatterings of freckles extending down this man’s back, dotted here and there with bigger, darker moles, he could only wonder if Kyle’s were lighter, like those on his face, or if they intensified underneath his clothes.   
  
“Come  _ on, _ man, fuck me.”  The man interrupted his thoughts, glancing over his shoulder. He could’ve at  _ least _ taken off those glasses as he tossed Craig what would be, in any other circumstances, a look that would make his cock ache. “Fuck me with that big, uncut dick,  _ officer.” _

He restrained himself from rolling his eyes. The guy's words just weren't doing anything for him, but Craig did his best to ignore it. Positioning himself, held onto the guy's hips and pushed inside. He grunted in response to the hot tightness.   
  
Craig gave himself a moment to adjust, but only for that short amount of time. He didn't want gentle, or soft, or anything of the sort. He built up a rough and steady pace, one that grew moans and groans from the other man.   
  
The slapping sound of skin on skin filled the room, and that would've been hot, it would've been perfect were it not for this guy's idea of sexy talk. "Yeah...yeah, fuck me, officer, read me my rights."

He didn't protest when Craig flattened his body against his, pressing him into the mattress and flattening his hand over his mouth just to  _ shut him up, _ gripping his fingers firmly into the scratchy stubble of the other man's face. The guy instead shuddered, letting out a muffled whimper underneath Craig's hand and, while wiggling his hips into Craig's every thrust, grabbed Craig's hand and very deliberately placed it around his long, thin neck.   
  
As Craig drove his hips, hard and unrelenting, he thought that if he could just be  _ normal, _ if he could just let go of this fixation, this  _ obsession _ with Kite— _ Kyle _ —that he'd be perfectly content with seeing what's-his-name underneath him again, or somebody like him. He could get anyone, he figured; he was hot, he was smart, he was good in bed, he was a  _ lot _ of things that any man would want but nothing, nobody at all was the same as that enigma of a man who was honestly nothing but a fucking  _ thorn in his side.... _   
  
But it didn't stop Craig from thinking about him. From imagining. From pressing his face against the too-wispy, too-straight, too-light red hair of this other man and inhaling, trying to find some sort of similarity between this, and that mane of curls that he hadn't been able to get out of his head for  _ weeks. _

"Kyle." At first, Craig hadn't realized that it escaped his lips. But then, he couldn't find it in him to care. He was too caught up in his thoughts, his desperation, simultaneously  _ out of his mind. _ As he fucked this man, all the could think about was Kyle.    
  
As he found his own release, as he stroked this man off in the moments following, Kyle's name was still on his lips. Over and over, moaned and breathy.   
  
And as soon as it was over, he was pulling out and tugging the condom off of his dick to dispose of. He got up and tossed it in the bin, and as he glanced back at the bed, his hookup was giving him an almost sad look. "What?"   
  
"My name's Jerry."

"Sorry." Craig perched himself on the edge of the bed, feeling like an awkward, out-of-place intruder even in his own room, a sinking, empty sensation filling his chest as he stared at a spot of peeling paint on his windowsill. He would fix that, someday.   
  
Jerry patted his shoulder, gently and somewhat awkwardly. "No worries." It was clear he didn't mean it. The bed shifted as he felt the weight of the other man lift off of it. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang tonight, maybe grab some food or whatever, 'cause you're really cute," Jerry said, followed quickly by the sound of light footsteps on the hardwood floor of Craig's bedroom, and rustlings as he dressed, "But you're obviously hung up on someone already, so... I'm not about that life, you know?"   
  
"Yeah. Sorry," Craig repeated, adjusting himself so his head rested on his pillows, absently observing this stranger in his house button his flannel by his doorway.   
  
"So, I'm gonna go. Thanks, that was fun." Jerry haphazardly shoved on his cardigan, shooting a disappointed glance at Craig.   
  
"I have a cat, so be careful when you leave."

Jerry didn't say another word to him, and Craig didn't feel the need to see him out. Hearing the soft click of the front door was good enough. He faded off into his thoughts, into despondency, unable to shake off the rotten feeling with him, unable to think of anything except how fucked up he was.   
  
So caught up in his thoughts, into zoning out the world around him, he didn't hear the creaking of the fire escape just outside of his window, didn't notice the dancing shadows across his wall as something—or some _ one _ —threw itself off of the platform into the dark of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the wonderful @tsunya99 for this fantastic [art](http://tsunya99.tumblr.com/post/180541495798/drawn-for-wind-of-change-a-cryle-fanfiction-by) for this fic!
> 
> tysm dear ♥

Monday didn't come too quickly or too slowly. It came right when it was supposed to, and it was well before dawn when Craig's morning routine began. In the warmer months, it was with a run before the morning rush.    
  
But it was far too cold for that. His complex had an indoor gym, and it was on frigid mornings like this that he took advantage of it. A few miles on a treadmill to get his blood flowing, to wake up, to stay in shape. When he was done, he got a pot of coffee going, and by the time he was finished with a quick shower, it was ready to be poured into a thermos. The cat got breakfast, and before heading out for the day, Craig grabbed a bagel for himself.   
  
The drive to the precinct wasn't a long one, relatively speaking, and by the time he strolled in, a few of his underlings were already there. It was still too early for more than a curt head nod as a greeting, and he headed straight for his desk. Shucking off his jacket, he had a seat, appraising his immaculate and well-organized desk as he booted up his PC.    
  
Soon he'd have to debrief his taskforce, assign duties as needed, but at least for the moment, he had the luxury of easing into his work day.   
  
He leaned back into his chair, nursing his coffee. It was the fuel he was going to need to get through the day; the long hours he kept meant he was always exhausted, even when he was able to catch up on rest on his days off.

With bleary eyes, he read email after email. Most of them weren't pertinent. In fact, a majority were blatant abuses of the 'reply all' button. Ultimately, it didn't take long at all to get through the emails, though there were a few he marked unread with the intention of dealing with properly later.    
  
He was halfway through his thermos of coffee when he heard others trickle into the precinct. Muted chatter filled the main room, before finally the telltale of approaching footsteps caught his attention. Craig didn't look away from his computer, merely quirking a brow at the dark-haired man who draped himself across Craig's desk.   
  
"Craig..."    
  
Craig leaned back in his chair and quirked a brow. "Marsh."   
  
Stan Marsh, perhaps one of his closest colleagues, sounded absolutely  _ pathetic, _ in the giddy teenage girl sort of way that was completely unbecoming for a man in his late twenties. "Wendy said  _ good morning _ to me."   
  
"Who?"   
  
"The new administrative assistant. She's so nice and perfect and probably  _ super smart. _ "   
  
It was too early in the morning for this bullshit, Craig decided, as if he didn't understand the exact way Marsh was apparently feeling right now. He'd had a crush or two before as well. He glanced over his shoulder, through the doorway of the room his desk was in, to the main room where this Wendy's desk was in plain view. "It's not even nine in the morning and you're not the only one she's greeted."

"Yeah, but — "   
  
"Not that it matters," chimed in one of the detectives on his taskforce, Bebe Stevens. As Marsh straightened quickly in an attempt to compose himself, she reached up, stood on her tiptoes, and ruffled his hair. "Stannie Boy here couldn't get more than a few stutters out before he scampered off."

“Dude!” Marsh looked at Stevens as if he were a wounded puppy. “That’s not even true, I totally said good morning, right back atcha,” he said, defensively, puffing out his chest while glancing at Craig, as if for approval.   
  
Craig had many talents, none of which he regarded as innate — they were more like skills, carefully crafted and practiced over the years. Still, one upon which he prided himself was his uncanny ability to  _ notice _ things,  _ multiple _ things, all at one. There were Marsh and Stevens in the foreground, casting gazes at each other that betrayed the laughter threatening to break out of their chests. There was the usual hustle and bustle of the precinct, nothing out of the ordinary throughout the open-plan map of desks — just Bill and Fosse, looking over the sports page and laughing, Officer White standing by, as nervous as always, sipping on a coffee, the screensaver of tiny bubbles bouncing from corner to corner on Stevens’s desk, like  _ always, _ but then...   
  
Then there was Testaburger, poised at the front, brows drawn in what looked like rage, or worry, or both, the very minute Malkinson walked in, with that forced swagger he always seemed to carry about him. Craig didn’t miss the way her mouth turned upside-down into a small, distasteful frown before she near-imperceptibly clenched her fist, and forced her face to soften. He could read her lips —  _ morning, Sergeant _ — and sense her relief the moment he was out of her line of vision.   
  
_ Swear to fucking god, if he did anything to another office girl... _ Shaking his head, Craig took a long swig of lukewarm coffee, before bracing himself as Malkinson made a beeline for his desk.

"Morning Lieutenant," Malkinson said, offering Craig a nod as he found his own desk to set his belongings down on. He continued speaking as he got all of his things in order. "I finished my profile over the weekend."    
  
There was a part of Craig that was tempted to chastise his sergeant for working on his time off, but there was little point in wasting his breath in hypocrisy. There were countless times when Craig pulled sixty hour weeks, after all. "I'd like you to present it in our morning meeting."   
  
Which was in just a matter of minutes. Finishing off his coffee, he moved to the other side of the room, where they had a series of dry erase and cork boards, filled with maps and photographs and other visual aids for the sake of their investigations.   
  
As the clock struck nine, his taskforce turned their attention to him. "It was a quiet weekend, relatively speaking," he began. "However, we were able to get a lead on the on the Coon and Friends side of things. Stevens, I want you and Anderson to follow up with Tuong Lu Kim. Our contact believes he may have information on the narcotics that Coon and Friends have smuggled into the city."   
  
He continued, outlining his expectations for the day, their goals concerning the Coon, Professor Chaos, and the other known members of the misleadingly-named group of supervillains. Which left one thing. The thing that had his stomach doing flip-flops. "Malkinson, go ahead and share your findings regarding the Human Kite."

Malkinson stood, clearing his throat. "We've analyzed the timing of the attacks orchestrated by the Kite. Since we've been tracking him, all of his activities have taken place either on the weekends or after five in the evening, and anywhere into late in the night. We're running on the assumption that we're looking for a white male, probably in his thirties, with a white collar nine-to-five job. We have had officers assigned to checking cameras throughout the city, and we have yet to get a visual on even a side profile of his face."

“To add, Sergeant,” Stevens piped up, tucking an errant, blonde curl back into her otherwise-neat bun, “I’ve noticed also, that his crimes seem to pick up in the summertime. I wouldn’t rule out blue-collar work just yet. Maybe something to do with the snow? Maybe we should look into ski resorts, snow plow drivers, that sort of thing?”   
  
Malkinson clucked his tongue, then ran it over his teeth, staring straight at Bebe. “Well,  _ sweetie, _ I don’t think you—“   
  
_ ”Sergeant.” _ Craig’s back stiffened as he stopped that shit before it could even begin. Malkinson scowled, glancing at the floor as he moved to seated. Craig never liked him. There was something about the guy, and it wasn’t just that he spit when he talked, or that he was a creep with all the female staff, or that he hung around with that bastard, the  _ other _ Scott.   
  
Small graces were that Tenorman wasn’t returning any time soon, even if the situation regarding that was unfortunate.   
  
There was just  _ something, _ something  _ off _ about Malkinson, and it drove Craig absolutely  _ nuts _ that he couldn’t pinpoint it. Perhaps his skills weren’t so developed after all, which made him feel even fucking  _ worse. _   
  
It wasn’t as if he’d want to figure it out at that exact moment, anyway. Not when his mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton, his forehead slick with sweat, his heart beating against his chest like it was threatening to burst forth, to just fall out right in front of all his colleagues and subordinates and betray everything he knew and  _ felt _ about the Human Kite.   
  
“Noted, Stevens. We’ll consider it.”   
  
_ What does he do, anyway? _ Craig thought, nervously smoothing his tie, the blood rushing in his ears blocking out whatever Marsh was saying. He felt his stomach lurch, something between nausea and anticipation, as he wondered if Kyle would be free at the same time as him. What he liked to eat. What movies he liked. Whether or not he’d want Craig to wake him up with breakfast.   
  
_ Nice, Tucker. Fantasize about feeding _ breakfast  _ to the Human Kite. How professional. _

"Lieutenant?"   
  
That drew Craig from his deplorable thoughts, and he grunted in response, peering over at Marsh who was looking at him expectantly.    
  
"Do you want me to run the plates?"    
  
Craig nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Go ahead and do what you need to, Marsh. I trust your judgement." That said he addressed the rest of the room. "That'll be all. Keep me abreast of any developments. We need to get these criminals behind bars, folks."   
  
Immediately following that, the sounds of shuffling filled the room, of murmurs among his team as they went about their respective duties. The hours passed quickly, as they often did, with Craig consolidating the reports of his staff, of pouring crime scene photographs, of planning the tactical side of things.    
  
It was something he enjoyed, in as much as he was capable of enjoying his work. The fact that their task force was small, specialized, meant that he still got the action that he craved when he was stuck behind his desk handling the administrative side of his duties.    
  
But even with that, it was easy to get caught up in everything enough that he could keep his mind off of people — a  _ person _ _ — _ that he needn't be thinking about.    
  
Except it wasn't working so well this time. He could focus on his work, but he couldn't stop the idle thoughts lingering in the back of his mind. The unpleasant sensation in his guy that resurfaced when he read over Malkinson's profile of the Kite. He was bad news, he was dangerous, they were diametrically opposed.    
  
But all Craig could think about were those curls sliding between his fingers, the way those fierce green eyes bore into him as he'd taken Craig fully into his mouth.

The soft buzzing of his phone brought a welcome reprieve from his self-inflicted torture. The name of his very best friend lit up his lock screen, and Craig couldn't help but inwardly smile.    
  
His privacy settings were as such that he couldn't read the text until he unlocked his phone, but before he read the text, he knew what it was going to be.   
  
|  _ Lunch? _   
  
Craig glanced at the clock, and seeing as for once, there wasn't something that immediately required his attention, he typed his response.    
  
|  _ Usual spot, 30 min _   
  
Once he got to a stopping point, he put on his jacket and headed out. The Usual Spot was a kitschy bistro, and the plan had always been that on Mondays, they would meet there for lunch. Because Mondays were awful and the best way to improve them was to spend time together.    
  
The problem being was that it wasn't a viable goal. It wasn't often that both of them had free lunches at all; both were on call, both had work-related obligations that made it impossible to do lunches on a weekly basis. But they tried.   
  
Clyde Donovan was already sitting down at a table when Craig arrived, appearing rather content as he scrolled through his phone. When he settled down across from him, Clyde looked up, grinning ear to ear, soft brown eyes shimmering. "Craig! Man, you've gotta look at this. It's a chiweenie in a  _ raincoat. _ " He shoved his phone over to Craig, and it was, in fact, the cutest thing he'd seen all day. He said as much, to which Clyde nodded because  _ of course it was. _ "Also, ordered your sandwich for you already. Turkey Club, potato salad instead of fries."   
  
There were merits to ordering the same thing every time, and this was it. "You're the best."

"I know, right?" While he shot Craig a wink, Clyde's grin didn't waver; if anything, his eyes crinkled even harder at the corners as he observed Craig rolling his eyes.   
  
Craig had to wonder how a man who had seen the kind of shit Clyde had seen, both in past and present, experienced the kind of shit Clyde experienced on a routine basis, how  _ anyone _ who did what Clyde did for a living could smile at all. Sure, Craig was well aware that he had it rough with his career, that he was past the point of desensitization from years of crime after crime, body after body, hurt after  _ hurt... _   
  
What always stuck with him, haunting his dreams and even driving him to drink, when it happened, were the kids. Those cases were, mercifully, few and far between for his department, and when they  _ did _ happen, Craig was far enough up in the chain of command that he didn't have to involve himself directly, for the most part. But for Clyde to see that shit every day, to work with them, to  _ help _ them... how could he chuckle and beam and joke as he did? Craig knew he'd never be able to stomach it.   
  
"Now, I can tell that you're a man with a need. A need for sweet, sweet coffee." As Clyde poured him a cup from the carafe, filling the mug so close to the brim that Craig feared it'd spill if he made one wrong move, the slump of Craig's shoulders, the huff of air through his nose weren't lost on his friend. "What's goin' on, my man?" Clyde shifted in his seat, leaning back and crossing his legs as he took a swig of his own coffee, which was so full of sugar and milk it hardly counted as coffee at all. "You look like you've been up all night."

"This is how I always look," Craig informed him. In a way, he wasn't wrong. He was always exhausted, always put forth the minimum effort in looking presentable. Unlike Clyde, who somehow always managed to have immaculately styled hair no matter how windy it was.   
  
It was a cop-out response, though, and Clyde knew that. They'd been friends for so long, brothers. In arms, and more, and Craig wasn't surprised at all when he pried. "Work related, or is there something else going on?"   
  
_ Both. _ It was both, but Craig couldn't tell him that. For the first time in the nearly twenty years he'd known Clyde, Craig knew he couldn't confide in what was bothering him. Because he knew what was doing, what he was feeling, was  _ wrong. _ "It's work, yeah. Can't get this case out of my head."   
  
Immediately Clyde understood, and slid his hand across the table, squeezing his arm. "It's all gonna be okay, bud. We just need to get all of that off your mind when you're not working."   
  
"Yeah, as if that's — "  _ Possible, _ he would've said. Except he caught the flashy commercial on the nearby television. Flashing colors, flashing words, and an energetic blond with a headband reading 'WT' tied across his forehead, promoting Elway Motors. Craig frowned, his grip on the coffee mug tightening.   
  
"Hey. Forget about him. You dropped that zero."

“Can you believe this shit?” Black coffee sloshed out the sides of Craig’s cup as he slammed it on the table, and wasn’t  _ that _ fitting, given the ludicrous display on the television. “Isn’t it just  _ so _ convenient that the  _ moment _ I dump his ass—“   
  
“Moment? It was like, a year ago.”   
  
“—the  _ moment _ I dump his ass,” Craig continued, ignoring Clyde in favor of glaring at the screen as if Tweek, whose eyes glowed an incandescent blue, and sparks shot from his hands toward the camera, only to be quickly replaced by the logo of Elway  _ fucking _ Motors, could sense his disdain through the broadcast, “He starts doing this bullshit. Because, and I quote,  _ the coffee business doesn't _ pay,  _ Craig. _ You know that's a crock of shit." Craig couldn't even force a smile at the friendly server who chose that moment to drop off their plates. Between his mindfuck of weekend, and  _ this, _ his mood had soured, seemingly beyond repair. "As if that  _ Superhero of the Month _ calendar didn’t get him enough attention,” he added, quietly but derisively, sighing before taking a bite of food.   
  
At least his sandwich was good.   
  
Clyde merely scoffed. “Yeah, well. It’s in the  _ past, _ my dude. Get yourself a hero." Clyde punctuated his statement with a raise of his coffee mug. "He’s a sellout, anyway. Think you’d catch someone like Mysterion doing that?”

Craig refused to dignify that with a response. It was too on the nose, between the flash of anger and resentment he felt upon seeing his ex's new publicity stunt. He felt at his wit's end, and it was only Monday.    
  
Aggressively stabbing into his potato salad, Craig bottled all of his frustrations away as he swallowed it down. "How's you and what's-his-face?" It was a joke, of sorts, one that drew a hearty laugh from Clyde, as Craig truly had yet to meet Clyde's inamorato.    
  
Clyde's face lit up, positively  _ glowing. _ Setting his sandwich aside, he committed himself to focus entirely on the question at hand. "Great. Honestly, Craig, one of these days you're going to have to meet him. He's  _ perfect. _ Kind and smart and funny. This past weekend we took some time for ourselves — we saw the live action  _ Red Racer, _ by the way. It sucked. Kenny agrees with me."

Craig nearly choked on his food with his sudden laughter. If he wanted a distraction from Tweek, from Kite, from the paperwork and meetings awaiting him back at the station, it just presented itself on a silver platter. "Fuck, man," he rasped out, finally taking a long gulp of his until-then neglected water, "I can't believe you  _ saw _ that, you fuckin' masochist. Do I even wanna know how bad it was?"   
  
Until Craig's alarm to get back to work went off, he and Clyde discussed the finer points of their favorite classic anime, and the butchery of the recent remake. It was almost enough for Craig to push aside everything he didn't want to think about.  _ Almost, _ but not quite, as images of green eyes and red curls and teal stretched across a lean chest flashed through his head, so intrusive that he could all but feel them gathering in that place where his neck and skull aligned, buzzing around the back of his mind like a gnat.   
  
Much like the  _ actual _ gnat that'd began flying around their table, buzzing about Craig's head, weaving around his coffee mug and water cup and god damn it if he couldn't stop those thoughts, he could at least kill  _ this _ asshole.

A strangled noise escaped Clyde, prompting Craig to peer across the table in befuddlement. "What?"    
  
For a moment, Clyde looked as though he'd been struck. He shook his head, trying to laugh it all off. "You didn't have to kill it, man."   
  
Silence filled the gaps between when Clyde stopped speaking and when Craig began. "It was just an insect." He wrote it off as Clyde just being an oddball. And soft. So soft. He was certain that it meant that Clyde was a stronger person than he would ever be.   
  
In so many ways, he was still the jovial eighteen year old he'd met at boot camp a lifetime ago. Happy, full of  _ life _ _ — _ if Craig ever admitted to being envious, it was meant in the best possible ways.    
  
"Well, I've gotta get back to work. I have a deposition...shit, fairly soon. And schedule meetings at some of the schools — " Clyde mumbled, partially distracted as he fished out his wallet while glancing at the ticket their server dropped off at some point.   
  
Craig was quicker, and once he had his piece of plastic in hand, he snatched up the slip of paper. "Yeah, I hear you. Get out of here."   
  
"Same bat time, same bat channel?"   
  
"Of course."

 

* * *

  
  
Craig always maintained that there was no better feeling than heading home, changing back into the same shabby pajamas he wore all weekend, and collapsing onto the sofa. It could be better, of course. He had more than enough money to purchase a more comfortable, more upscale couch than a creaky, sagging futon more fitting for a college student than a high-ranking police officer in his late thirties, but he just... hadn't.   
  
It was another one of those  _ things _ that he'd been avoiding. Just like the dirty coffee cups in his sink, the peeling paint on his windowsill, and the knowledge that he could figure out  _ exactly _ who the Human Kite was with a few keystrokes and have him behind bars in no time. Some things could simply  _ wait. _   
  
As Craig idly scrolled through his Hulu watchlist, Midnight, having sated herself from her customary bowl of after-work kibble, leapt onto the futon with a small chirp of a meow, and wasted no time in situating herself upon Craig's chest.  _ Guess I'm not going anywhere, _ Craig thought, as if he actually had intentions of leaving this spot, and when she nuzzled his face, he gave her a tiny kiss on the sleek fur of her forehead.

He was halfway through whatever sitcom he had on when his phone rang. Seeing the name that lit up on the screen as the phone rested on his coffee table, he reached over and answered it immediately. "Hey, Momma."   
  
"Craig, honey, how are you doing? I texted you earlier and you didn't respond."    
  
That sort of warm feeling he got only when he spoke to his mother filled him to his core, and he shifted, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he leaned into the futon. "Wasn't intentional. It's been a busy day, but I'm alright."

Laura hummed, a sound that to anyone else may have been taken as disapproval. Craig knew, however, that it was her way of saying,  _ don’t work yourself too hard. _ She’d stopped outright telling him that long ago. “Well,” she said, “Your dad’s been kicking up a fuss. He had his physical last Friday—“   
  
“Complete bullshit!” Craig heard his father yell in the background.   
  
“—and his doctor—“   
  
“Who is a quack! Hi Craig!” Craig snorted a laugh at this, and the unmistakable noise of heavy footsteps heading up the stairs that followed.   
  
Laura sighed, laughing softly. “Your dad says hi, by the way.”   
  
“Yeah. I heard.”   
  
“Anyway, they’ve got him on this low-carb diet, which is a long time coming if you ask  _ me, _ but he’s real fussed, since it was supposed to be lasagna night.”

"I can't blame him. Your lasagna is the best." Nothing was better than his mother's cooking, and just thinking about that made him feel homesick. Even if he'd been living on his own longer than he'd live with his parents, it was a sentiment that still rang true.   
  
"Honey, are you sure you're doing alright? You sound sad."   
  
Craig was quiet for a moment, which gave away far too much. "I'm fine, momma, I promise. I'm just tired, is all."   
  
"If you're sure..."

Craig inhaled deeply, his chest puffing out enough to disturb Midnight, who bolted off of him disgruntledly. "Momma, I'm..." Craig started, hyper-aware of the waver in his voice, how vulnerable he must've sounded. He knew she noticed, and hoped that she wouldn't ask him what was wrong, and especially that she wouldn't say something like  _ you'll always be my little boy, _ because, not only would he probably lose it and cry like a  _ bitch, _ but because, well. What was he supposed to say in the first place?   
  
_ Momma, I'm fucking up my own investigation because I can't keep my dick in my pants, and I have a dumb crush on a supervillain. _ Craig grit his teeth, setting his mouth into a firm line. "I'm fine. Don't worry. Hear from Trish at all lately?"

"Not since the beginning of last week," Laura told him. Craig was admittedly relieved that she didn't press the matter further. "I suppose she must be busy, like you always are."   
  
Craig hummed. "Or she's lost inside of her own work. She's still working at Ikea, after all."   
  
"I'd like to think a store manager would know the layout, honey."

If Craig’s chuckle sounded forced to his own ears, he couldn’t imagine how it must’ve sounded to the person who probably knew him better than anybody else. “Yeah,” he said, “Well. I’m pretty tired, mom.”   
  
Which wasn’t a lie, Craig supposed. He  _ was _ tired—if not physically, it was the sort of mental exhaustion that made it difficult to keep his eyes open, that felt like wearing weights around every joint, that made it feel as if his chest and stomach were nothing but a gaping, empty space.   
  
“Oh. All right, then.” His mother’s voice edged on disappointment. “Call me next time you have a moment, yeah?”   
  
“Yeah. Love you.”

"I love you too, honey, get some rest."    
  
When the call ended, he felt relieved. He adored talking to his mother, but when there was so much weighing on him like this, he wanted nothing more than to collapse in his bed for the night.    
  
As he did his rounds, double checking the doors and windows, turning off the television and lights, the apartment filled with silence, safe for the soft padding of his feet on the hardwood floors. When he finally made it to bed, he plugged in his phone and tugged the blankets up to his shoulders.   
  
Not long after he'd made himself comfortable, Midnight joined him with a soft  _ brrr _ as she curled up on one of the pillows beside him.    
  
Sleep didn't come easily, but once it did, it came deeply. That's what made his phone ringing all the more disorienting. Blindly reaching for his phone, he pressed it against the side of his face as he grunted. "Mm...yeah?"   
  
"Lieutenant. It's Marsh. Uh, Stan Marsh. Look, we've got a situation — "   
  
"What."   
  
" — regarding the Human Kite."   
  
_ That _ woke him up, and he immediately shoved the blankets off of himself to sit up. "What happened?"   
  
"Homicide. Look — Lieutenant, do you want me to call someone else? You sound a little out of it."   
  
"Absolutely not. I'm the lead on the case. Send me the address and I'll be there."


	3. Chapter 3

Were he still new to the force, Craig would have assumed that the fenced-in mansion on the outskirts of the city was outside their jurisdiction. He'd stopped to grab a to-go cup of coffee at a gas station before turning his lights on and flooring it all the way there, but, even still, by the time he reached the scene of the crime, it'd begun to go cold.  
  
It was a clear, crisp night, no flurries of snow to cloud his view, and were Craig unaware of the inevitable grisly scene inside, it would've been a _beautiful_ night, a beautiful scene of a rich neighborhood where the houses were far enough away from one another that it almost felt as if he were in the middle of the country. If he were there for any other reason, it'd be a lovely spot for a run, maybe. As it were, however, yellow tape stretched across the expanse of the open security gate, flanked by two red brick columns supporting wrought-iron lamps. Against one of them, Marsh leaned, looking positively green.  
  
"All right, Marsh, brief me," Craig projected, slamming the car of his cruiser and heading toward Marsh in long, hurried strides. As the distance between them drew closer, Craig noticed that Marsh's chest heaved, that his hands scraped against the brick as if to try and find something to hold onto.

Marsh held his other hand up, indicating he needed a minute before he pushed himself up properly and attempted to regain his composure. "It's—It's really bad, Lieutenant." Taking a deep breath, he led Craig inside.  
  
There was a vastness, an emptiness to the house, despite there already being a plethora of officers and CSI on the scene, sweeping for evidence. Marsh knit his eyebrows, pinching his nose and huffing into his hand before he shook his head, his shoulders, and straightened up. "Vic is Owen Johnson, CEO of the PricklyPear Tech company. Uh — In case you didn't know, their platform is fair trade smartphones and tablets — "  
  
" — I'm aware of the company. _The Denver Post_ recently published an article about them outsourcing production to factories that don't uphold the standards that PricklyPear claims to support."

The house had a certain _stillness_ to it. A feeling that made Craig’s ears prick and his fingertips tingle. He thought back to his hometown, to that night at Stark’s Pond, in moments like these, when he knew he was walking into the scene of a murder. When he knew it was going to be something _bad._

And it wasn’t just the emptiness. It was the smell. It was faint, at the bottom of the staircase, and maybe it wasn’t even _there_ at all, but… he swore, somewhere in the distance, was the thick, suffocating stench of blood, of decay. Of _death._

The pond was situated about two miles west of his childhood home, nestled deep into the woods and, as it were in small towns like South Park, people _talked,_ and rumors flew. _Don’t go to the pond alone_ may as well have been a song, a jingle— it was a mantra ingrained in the mind of every child in their small mountain town, Craig being no exception to the rule. The real old-timers said it started when _it_ happened to little Marine Jenkins in the 50s, and _wasn’t that a shame, little Marnie, wasn’t that a tragedy?_ Some said that an alien spaceship crash-landed into the center of the pond in the mid-seventies. Most people, and _now_ Craig knew for a fact that _they_ were completely correct, said that it was nothing but a hotbed for drugs and those _nasty_ _kinda people, kiddo, you don’t wanna be down there after dark_ who lived in tents and talked to themselves and would _getcha_ if you weren’t careful. But the pond was a funny place, with funny people, where _funny_ things happened.

Craig inhaled, sharply, nodding at Marsh to continue. _Don’t go to the pond alone._

"Right, so we're thinking that's why Johnson was a target," Marsh said. The walked up the staircase, headed down a long hallway. Marsh stopped when he reached the door. It smelled _red,_ and smoky-sharp, like molten metal, behind that door. Craig already knew. Marsh took another deep breath, holding it for a moment. "We think he came in through the window."

Craig was eight when he did it, and he was _alone._ He couldn’t remember why, in the first place, maybe his parents were fighting and he wanted to leave, or he was playing spaceman and he wandered off to find the aliens, but it didn’t matter because it was dark, and it was _thrilling_ and he was _brave_ and he could handle it.

And it was halfway down the path, behind the church and through the woods, right where the mirror-shiny black stillness of the pond began to come into view that he found the man. At first, when the ground beneath his feet squished damp, he’d thought that it had rained. At first, when his foot made contact with something soft, he thought maybe it was a coyote that those two hunters who lived up the way shot and left behind, he remembered that they did that, always did that, to defenseless animals, because what _else_ was there to do in that poor, boring town but shoot things and leave them for nature to take its course.  
  
It wasn’t. And, now, there were only snapshot memories of a blown-away face and a gun on the ground, inches away from a dirt-covered hand with gnarled, yellow nails, and blood on his canvas shoes, and a little boy with pants that were an inch too high and a blue-and-yellow chullo hat pulled over his ears running as fast as his little feet could carry down a winding mountain path but. _But._ Thirty years later, he still remembered, clear as day, the _smell_ , the _quiet,_ and it was never _ever_ any different no matter _what_ the crime, no matter _where_ the scene. It always came back to him, it always made him feel so _small._

 _Don’t go alone._ He nodded at Marsh, who stepped aside, a pained expression on his face, and it hit him, full force, the moment the door opened. _Blood, death,_ red _, it’s not a_ fucking coyote this time, Craiggo.  
  
Pursing his lips, Craig pushed past Marsh and entered the room, appraising the scene as Marsh continued talking. A cracked window, melted metal and laser burns along one of the walls where there was very obviously a safe. Whatever was stored within it was gone. “Tell me what you think, Detective,” Craig said, as slowly, as deeply as he could manage when all he wanted to do, every goddamn time, was let out the piercing scream that came from his mouth, that echoed off the mountains the moment he’d reached the edge of the churchyard off that path.  
  
"There aren't many signs of struggle, so we think he was sitting there—” Marsh jerked his head over his left shoulder, not looking behind himself—  “working, Kite killed him, took any valuables that Johnson had."

 _No._ Stomach churning, Craig bit his lip. "That can't be — "  
  
"Gunshot wound directly to the head. Residue and splatter indicate close range, per se." A soft, lisping voice interrupted Craig and, as soon as he turned around, not only did he see deep brown eyes framed by smudged liner, the only visible part of Makowski underneath his mask and his white protective suit, but he also, he _finally_ saw the blood that had already invaded his nostrils the very _moment_ he walked inside. Deep red splatters upon Johnson's chair, his desk, his computer, and sprayed upon the abstract art piece above his work space like another layer of paint. It was no wonder Stan couldn't keep his composure, couldn't keep his stomach settled.  
  
His mouth turned down into a grim line. "Cut and dry, huh, Makowski?" He paused. “Where’s the body?”  
  
The crime scene investigator nodded. "EMS took the vic to the ME's office already.” As if anticipating what Craig was going to follow that up with, he quickly added. “Malkinson cleared it. They'll perform an autopsy, but it'll be more of a, per se, _formality_ than anything — "  
  
"I'm well aware of the protocol," Craig all but snapped, feeling his heart pounding in his throat. This was wrong. This was _all_ wrong. Kite — _Kyle_ _—_ hated guns, and whatever was in that safe was surely something of monetary value, and _maybe_ Kyle would be after that. He'd robbed banks, robbed businesses, but _this?_ This seemed far more personal than something Kite would ever do.  
  
There was no possible way he could _say_ it. How was he to prove that he knew Kite hated guns, that he knew _anything_ about the guy other than his string of crimes and the incredibly basic profile Malkinson created about the villain, without betraying everything? Without giving up _himself?_ "Apart from what appears to be laser damage," Craig said, slowly, wishing he still had his coffee, a water, _something_ to quench his parched, nervous mouth, "How do you know it was our guy?"  
  
Marsh made a noise that was between a laugh and a whine. "The vic was tied up with kite string."

 

* * *

  
  
There were still a few hours until sunrise when he parked his car outside of the warehouse. Craig knew he shouldn't be there, but he felt _compelled._ For better or worse, it was the best way to get to the bottom of this. He took the same pathway he always did, through oil-and-sawdust-scented, empty corridors, following the dim light to where Kyle sat at a table, tinkering with a machine that Craig couldn't easily identify.  
  
"Hello, Lieutenant." The redhead didn't even look up from his work.  
  
"Ky — " He stopped himself, squaring his jaw. "Kite."  
  
"And here I thought I'd never see your smiling face again," he responded dryly.  
  
"Are you — " Kyle still hadn't looked up, and Craig felt compelled to step closer. It was oblong, and honestly looked more mad scientist-y than anything. "What's that's thing?"  
  
Kyle snorted. The sound was something unbecoming, but something that somehow still fit him. "Do you honestly think I'm going to tell you how this works? I'm not an idiot, Tucker."  
  
"Whatever. Listen," there was an edge of urgency in his tone. "I came to tell you that — "  
  
_That_ was when Kyle looked up, green eyes fierce and narrowed. "You have a thing for redheads."

Craig's face tingled with how hot it burned, somewhere between embarrassment, rage, and something else entirely. "What," he deadpanned, although the question was entirely unnecessary. He hadn't thought about Jerry for more than a second since he'd left Craig's apartment, but he hadn't _forgotten._  
  
It was probably his best, his most _useful_ attribute. But it was what Craig hated the most about himself— he never _forgot._  
  
"You know," Kyle began, voice clipped through clenched teeth, "I was just _in the neighborhood,_ just flying around, as I _do."_ The tool in his hand clattered to the table sharply, followed by the dull slap of the side of Kyle's fist. "And was thinking of paying you a visit, last Saturday."  
  
There was a lurch in Craig's stomach, this one unrelated to the smell of blood from the crime scene (from the _pond)_ that he couldn't seem to shake from his nostrils. "Oh," he muttered, weakly, crossing his arms.  
  
"Yeah. And what a surprise that as soon as I came to your window, you already had company."  
  
"You really need to stop doing that." Craig crossed the meager, remaining distance that the room provided between them and pressed his lower back against the workbench, leaning into it.  
  
Kyle's face was a bright, angry pink. "Didn't think you were into choking, Lieutenant," he quipped, pursing his lips.

"I'm not. He—" Craig stopped himself right there. He didn't owe Kyle anything. They weren't a _thing._ If anything, they were enemies, and it simply wasn't Kyle's business. And as he tried to articulate that... it just wasn't what came out at all. "Stop fucking spying on me! If you knocked on my door like a _normal_ goddamn person, and.” Craig stopped himself with a long, drawn-out huff through clenched teeth, eyes shutting, then opening, for but a moment. “Yeah, you know, I couldn’t find you online anywhere and I was hoping you…"  
  
Because there _was_ something there. He wanted there to be be, he hadn't been able to get Kyle out of his head for ages —  
  
And Kyle was just giving him this _weird_ look. One that he couldn't quite figure out, one that had his heart thrumming.  
  
"Look. I just. I just came here to tell you that you’re in danger."  
  
"Dude." Another snort, and Kyle was running his hand through those lush curls. "Like that's new to me."  
  
"No, I'm serious." Craig frowned, moving closer, until he was just on the other side of Kyle's desk. "Someone's setting you up. The CEO of — "  
  
"PricklyPear was found dead, tied up in kite string, gunshot to the head. Do you think I don't pay attention? I know exactly who's doing it, too."  
  
Red flags. None of that information was out to the public yet, which begged to question just in what other ways Kyle was spying on him. On the investigation.

And _how?_

Craig allowed the stony, but slightly curious expression on his face speak for itself as he committed to memory the slight furrow of Kyle's shapely, red brows, the small tinge of worry in his eyes, and the unmistakable tremor in his hands that showed Craig, in no uncertain terms, that Kyle _didn't do it._ There had been a quick flutter of a thought as he was driving to the warehouse, sipping on his second gas station coffee and trying to shake the scene of the crime from his head (which, really, wasn’t that _stupid, Craig, aren’t_ you _stupid, you’ve seen a whole lot worse, haven’t you?)_ that, well, _what if he did?_

Caig could've absolutely kicked himself for thinking that, even for a moment. He’d had a hunch from the beginning, and Craig Tucker's hunches were never _fucking_ wrong.  
  
Kite was innocent. _Kyle_ was innocent. It didn't mean, however, that Craig wasn't going to catch the bastard that _did_ kill Johnson.  
  
Kyle glanced up at him through wide, almost sorrowful eyes, pushing his workbench back with a heavy, grinding drag against the cement floor that made the back of Craig's neck crawl. "I take it you're familiar with Coon and Friends, Lieutenant," Kyle said, somewhat hoarsely, "Or do you spend _all_ your time stalking me?"  
  
_"You're_ the one that's—nevermind." Craig shook his head, and relaxed his posture as best he could, uncrossing his arms in favor of resting his hands aside himself on the bench. "Those dumbasses? They're nothing more than glorified drug dealers."

Kyle laughed. But it was one of those humorless ones that sounded more forced than anything. "If you really think that, you're _grossly_ underestimating them, Lieutenant. They have the plans and the resources to do much more than that. They already _are_ doing more than that."  
  
That was news. If it was true — and Craig felt like he could believe Kyle — that indicated that there was more activity than his team realized. Which raised even more concerns. How much was going under the radar. "I suppose you're not going to elaborate more on that."  
  
"I'm not the pig. This is the only time I'll tell you to do your job."  
  
Craig was tempted to shake him. But that was what he should have expected. Kyle wasn't the sort he could mold into a CI. "Okay. What makes you so sure that Coon and Friends are setting you up?"  
  
"You're not at a high enough friendship level to hear that tragic backstory, Tucker." It was an attempt at a joke, but it was one that fell flat. "Look. I just know. We've got history."

"With the Coon, or with his Friends?" Craig asked, chuckling to himself at something that really wasn't funny at all.  
  
Kyle glared. "Both?" Those long fingers ran though that bouncy hair _again,_ and Craig wanted nothing more than to _pet_ it, to massage his fingers into his scalp and pull him in and tell him to just forget about _everything,_ just for now, but of course he didn't.  
  
Instead, Craig chewed at the inside of his cheek, and tried to give Kyle the best _cop-stare_ that he could muster, to try and make him crack only under the metaphorical weight of steely-blue eyes boring into Kyle's own, and Craig couldn't deny that he was shocked, to the point that he felt an unexpected grin spread across his face, when it actually fucking _worked._  
  
"Okay, fine, we dated for like, a little under a year but it was really _stupid,_ and it was a long — "  
  
"Oh, isn’t _that_ wonderful," Craig found himself sneering, lip curling up, "Please tell me you're talking about Chaos." He was, after all, _probably_ the least-unattractive one out of the bunch.

Silence filled the warehouse. One of the screws on the table rolled onto the floor, and each and every clatter reverberated off of the bare walls. Craig stood there, awaiting Kyle's response. When it didn't happen, he prompted. "Disarray?"  
  
"You really have a redhead fetish."  
  
Craig didn't even bother to suppress his frustrated groan. It was always pulling teeth with Kyle sometimes. If the guy wasn't going to give him information, he just wasn't, but if that were the case Craig wished he'd just stop playing games. "Kyle."  
  
"Look. It was a long time ago, and I had some self-esteem issues or whatever."

“Don’t get why you would,” Craig blurted out, “‘Cause there’s something. Um. Something about you. Or whatever.” His face burned and throbbed the same way it did when he’d downed a rum and coke too quickly. It was funny, and by funny he meant absolutely embarrassing and ridiculous, that he could keep his wits about him every moment of every day in his career, but when it came to Kyle—to _Kite,_ he reminded himself—that all went out the window.  
  
Kyle sniggered, rolling his eyes. “Yep. Total catch. Totally available, totally ready for a normal relationship with someone who isn’t. You know. In the same line of work as I am.”  
  
The conversation was beginning to shift into something else entirely, something too raw and too honest and too close to the sort of discussion they _needed_ to have, and both knew it. Perhaps that was why Kyle’s arms were firmly crossed upon his chest, why the bench was shaking from him jiggling his knee up and down, and why he was _blushing,_ a tinge of red making his freckles even more prominent.  
  
“Everyone makes mistakes. I dated Wonder Tweek for like five years if you wanna talk about mistakes.” Craig was sure, after blurting _that_ out, he could’ve, _should’ve_ just died on the spot. For as much as he wanted to know this other man, was it wise to reveal anything at all about _himself?_

"Publicly dated a _corporate sellout_ who now makes his living trying to be the next Jake Jabs of stupid commercials. Tell me something I don't know." There was a trace of bitterness in his tone, and it was difficult to determine who Kyle hated more: Tweek or Jake Jabs.  
  
"Is there anything you haven't apparently already dug up on me?" It was weird, having the tables turned like this. He could've easily figured out who Kyle really was before this, but the price it came with hadn't been worth it. Instead he was left with this. Knowing very little about the man before him.  
  
Though it was hard to shake off the indescribable feeling he felt due to Kyle knowing things about him.  
  
"You know, Craig. It's a shame you're a cop. There's something about you, too."

What Craig hated the most, not about Kite, the villain, but Kyle, the person was that in moments like this—when their eyes locked and Kyle parted his lips and did that almost-smile, almost-seduction _thing_ with his mouth that always made Craig’s knees feel weak and just _stared_ into him—he could never tell what the other man was _thinking._ It felt like Kyle was looking through him, looking _into_ him in a way that nobody had before. And it killed Craig, just fucking _ate him up_ inside that he couldn’t do the same.  
  
He should’ve been able to. He was a fucking cop. He had the training, the experience, but he _couldn’t_ and it was fucking infuriating but maybe Craig didn’t hate it at all. “Tell me more about the Coon,” he said, almost automatically, like his brain was trying to bring him back to the investigation, to _business,_ when all his body wanted to do was close the gap between himself and the man before him.  
  
Kyle simply laughed. This time, it was more genuine, clear and bright. “I told you. You’re the fuzz. _You_ figure it out.” His eyes shifted, almost fluttering, and he reached out, gingerly stroking the back of his hand against Craig’s knee. “Would it be a bad idea, Lieutenant, if I _did_ show up at your door, like a normal person?”  
  
Craig’s heart thumped against his rib cage like it was a prisoner negotiating his freedom. “Probably.”

"Neither of us have been particularly known to make sound decisions."  
  
Craig knew that Kyle was referring to very particular decisions, pertaining to one another. Craig was methodical and orderly, had control of his entire life. Except for this. _This_ thing. And he couldn't begin to figure out what Kyle's life was like outside of this. But letting himself be weak for an obvious enemy —  
  
That was certainly out of character for him as much as it was for Craig.  
  
"I suppose you aren't wrong about that," he murmured, feeling his breath catch in his throat as Kyle got to his feet. There were only a few paces between them, and as Kyle closed them, he could feel a buzzing in his mind grow louder and louder.  
  
Kyle's hand was soft as it rested against the side of his face, as his thumb stroked across his cheek. "Maybe I will." As Kyle leaned in, Craig's lips parted. His mouth went dry. His heart raced.  
  
And his hand found Kyle's shoulder, pushing him back. "I have to go."

Craig spun on his heel before he allowed himself a chance to look at the disappointment, the annoyance, maybe even the _hurt_ that he knew graced the other man’s face. Certainly it was on his own; certainly his expression betrayed the fact that he _wanted_ to stay, that he wanted to give in to that electric feeling of _need,_ to let Kyle capture his lips and pin him against that table and...  
  
_God,_ was he stupid? They couldn’t do this. _He_ couldn’t do this, no matter how much he needed it because if he wasn’t already in over his head before, the homicide sealed the deal—it would be prudent, it would be _wise_ to treat Kite as an informant, a tool, nothing more. But _could_ he? The still air of the warehouse, which smelled of sawdust and metal and _mystery_ felt like it was choking him, filling his lungs and making him suffocate as he strode as quickly as his feet could carry him without running.  
  
It was only when he reached the door that he heard Kite’s workbench scrape against the concrete once more.

He only felt like he could breathe again once he was within the confines of his car. It was just too much right now, and the more distance he put between himself and that warehouse, the better. Turning over the ignition, he pulled out of industrial complex. For the _better_ .  
  
He still had two hours before he needed to be at the precinct for his normal shift, so when he found street parking in an area that he knew was safe enough, he pulled over. Leaning his seat back, he attempted a semblance of a nap before he headed in.

He was more than thankful that he didn’t dream.

Waking up came far too quickly, and when he walked into the precinct, it was with a coffee drink that was hot enough to burn his hand. He wasn't surprised to see Marsh already there. He was pallid, a little green, and with the way his hands trembled as he sat at his desk, the way he looked like he was attempting to regulate his breathing, Craig knew he was worse for wear.  
  
"Here," he said, setting the coffee down. "I thought you'd need it. It's a pumpkin spice...whatever, I know you like this sort of stuff. Take it home with you."

Marsh’s blue, puppy-dog eyes were bloodshot, red around the rims fading into purple circles underneath his eyes, and he looked at Craig as if he could hug him. Craig hoped he _wouldn't._ "I still have, uh..." Marsh raked his hand through his flat, messy hair, and eyeballed the lock screen of his phone. "Well. All day, Lieutenant." His voice was as exhausted as he looked.  
  
"Go home, Marsh. Don't worry about vacation time or anything," Craig said, hiding his face behind his coffee mug in a futile effort to mask his own yawn, which in turn made _Stan_ yawn again. "Go spend some time with, I dunno, your girlfriend or whatever."  
  
The smallest hint of a wry smile played at Marsh’s mouth. "I don't have..." He shook his head, and when he took a sip of his sugary drink, his eyes fluttered shut as he let out a soft hum of satisfaction. "This is delicious. Thanks, man. I guess I could pick up Sparky a few hours early from doggie day care."

"Yeah. You do that."  
  
Craig stood there, watching Marsh gather his things, watching the exchange of soft gentle smiles between him and Testaburger. Once he was out of view, Craig took his seat at his desk and began working on his reports.  
  
He could've used an excuse to go home and get much-needed rest, but... someone had to be there.


	4. Chapter 4

His alarm buzzed on his nightstand as the sun rose. It was an old digital thing that somehow still worked despite the number of times Kyle reached over to smack it to shut it off. He rose quickly, making his bed, laying his outfit for the day across it when he was done.    
  
It was only as he started his coffee and started cooking breakfast that he looked at his phone. He unplugged it from the charger by his microwave, clearing out the notifications. Hardly any of it warranted his immediate attention.   
  
He didn't always get going quickly enough to cook elaborate breakfasts, but scrambled eggs were always doable, as they took no time at all. Two plates from the cabinet, eggs evenly divided. It was mindless and easy for his pre-caffeinated brain.    
  
After setting both plates on the bar that divided the living room and kitchen, he kicked a nearby door. "Ike! Breakfast!"  While there wasn't a verbal response, there was enough shuffling and fumbling that he knew his younger brother heard him.

Ike's dark hair stood up every which way—including that of the thick, long beard he’d been growing out for some time now, that Kyle always maintained looked ridiculous—as he staggered from his room into the kitchen, in ratty, old Terrance and Phillip pajama pants and a knitted afghan slung around his bare shoulders like a cape. He rubbed his sleepy eyes, acknowledging Kyle with a grunt, before clumsily grabbing a mug from the kitchen cabinet, leaving the door open as he all but yanked the coffee pot out of the machine. The dripping, still-brewing liquid sizzled and smoked as it hit the hot plate.   
  
"Dude!" Kyle admonished around a mouthful of eggs, "At least wait til it's done, Christ."   
  
Ike grunted again as he poured a mug, then shoved the pot back onto the maker. It wasn't until he took a long sip of the still-scalding beverage that he spoke. "Good morning to  _ you _ too, bro."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You've gotta stop with this 'don't interact with me until I've had one sip of coffee' routine. That's such a cop out." He was sure to include air quotes, even as he held his fork in one of his hands.   
  
The younger of the Broflovski brothers merely shrugged as he padded to the bar stool to shovel down his eggs before they got cold. "Contrary to what you may believe, some of us require both sleep and the bitter shock of coffee to our systems to reconcile the fact that this is the horrible reality we live in."   
  
"You need to lay off the gaming, dude." As soon as he cleared off his plate, Kyle got up and rounded about the bar to the kitchen proper to rinse off the plate and fork before sticking it in the dishwasher. He grabbed a to-go coffee cup from the cabinet, finishing off the now-finished brewing pot in one fell swoop.   
  
He still had about half an hour until he needed to leave, though, so he lingered a moment, leaning against the counter to study Ike. "So I'm thinking... I might do something after work. I don't know how it'll turn out, so I might just be a few hours later than usual getting back. Or it might be a lot longer."   
  
Ike didn't miss a beat. "Cool. I'll be sure to throw a raging house party and completely trash the place while you're gone."

"Okay, so, if you could put your dishes in the dishwasher, and for the love of  _ god _ rinse the pot out if you make shells and cheese again?" Kyle made short, speedy work of pouring a bit of creamer into his to-go mug, then topping it off with the mere sliver of liquid lingering in the bottom of the pot before adding a teaspoon of sugar. If Ike wanted any more, he'd have to make it  _ himself. _ "It sticks to the bottom if you don't, it's like cement. You know, I can't believe you're continually putting that in your body. Maybe if you'd at  _ least _ add some broccoli to it."   
  
Ike scoffed at him, although there was no real mirth behind it. "You sound like mom. Actually, I've got plans of my own."   
  
Kyle shot him a look.  _ Really?, _ it said.   
  
"I'm gonna finish work shit as fast as I can, play Red Dead Redemption 2 all day, and get high as  _ fuck." _ Ike raised a thick brow over his coffee, which dripped from his mustache when he set his cup down. "And probably order calzones. Maybe see if Tiff wants to come over again."   
  
"Yeah, well. Tiff won't  _ want _ to come over again if you don't clean the place up." Kyle crossed the room to what he supposed was a small version of a foyer, crouching down to pull his loafers out of the cubby he stored his shoes in. Setting them near the mat by the front door, it would be easy enough to slip them on when he finally left. They weren’t in the way, anyway, it wasn’t like Ike ever went anywhere. "Don't smoke in the living room, okay?"

"Whatever."   
  
"I'll know if you do!" Kyle called from the end of the hall as he headed back to his bedroom. He heard something that was probably intended to get a rise out of him as he closed the door behind him, but he merely chuckled.    
  
Getting ready didn't take long, relatively speaking, and by the time he was done, he looked the same as he always did on a work day. Collared dress shirt under an argyle sweater vest, slacks, a coat for the brisk walk from his apartment to his work, and thick black and green rimmed glasses.   
  
As he headed out, he bid Ike farewell, who had already shuffled back to his room to do god knows what.   
  
It was only about a ten minute walk, but it felt much longer as the cool winter air blew against him. A relief rushed over him as he crossed the threshold into Molly Brown Middle School, immediately welcomed by the warmth.

He was early enough that there weren't yet any students roaming the halls, only a few in the lunchroom, playing on their phones or absently staring off into space. None gave him any regard as he strode the length of the room, his dress shoes clicking dully on the worn linoleum, then headed up a small set of stairs at the end of the room which led to the long, chlorine-scented hallway of the locker rooms and swimming pool. It was a shortcut to his classroom he'd discovered a few weeks after he was hired.   
  
He noticed Kevin a few paces ahead of him as soon as the double doors between the corridor and the lunch room closed, his shiny, jet-black hair looking ruffled, walking with his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his grey peacoat, a plaid scarf hanging loosely around his neck. "Hey!" Kyle cried out, his shoes clacking as he picked up his pace into a light jog until he caught up with his friend. "Morning," he said, tossing Kevin a small smile.   
  
Kevin rolled his eyes. "Yep. It's definitely the morning." His dark eyes were bloodshot, framed by wrinkles and bags that Kyle could've sworn appeared overnight. "How’s the week been? Bet you’re glad it’s the weekend. "   
  
Kyle laughed, nervously. "It was, y'know. It was a week. But you know, totally looking forward to four o’clock rolling around. How's the baby?"   
  
This drew a long, ragged half-laugh from his coworker. "Have a baby, they said. It'll be fun, they said. All that,  _ oh, you'll never sleep _ stuff is  _ exaggerated, _ they said."

"I don't envy you at all," Kyle told him. He was never one for sugarcoating, or false niceties. He wasn't going to start now, either; he knew Kevin went into this fully informed of what he was signing up for. For eighteen goddamn years or longer. "I'm never having kids."   
  
Kevin laughed as he rubbed his face, though it was hard to tell if it was out of humor or utter exhaustion. "Good. Don't do it."   
  
"I might get a cat one day, eventually." For the first time since he woke up, he allowed his thoughts to drift. Not to the dark-haired man who invited his subconscious like the worst sort of intrusive thoughts, but to that sleek, beautiful  _ purr machine _ that he'd manage to win over for a brief cuddle.   
  
He'd never been allowed pets as a child. But now, with his schedule, with Ike being  _ Ike, _ it still wasn't viable or responsible.    
  
"You should. Anyway, this is me. See you later, Kyle."    
  
The two parted ways, and Kyle continued down the hallway until he reached the social sciences corridor. Settling into his classroom was something that always happened with relative ease — the benefit of having a first block planning period.    
  
He caught up on grading, finalized supplemental material he was using to tie into his lesson plans, ingested enough caffeine to endure the rest of the day. He still felt like he was going strong as he took it on.   
  
" — are there any questions about the Bill of Rights, or civil rights movements?" He quirked a brow as he leaned against the front of his desk. Crickets. At least with this group, his honors class, he felt at least somewhat confident that they mostly understood everything they'd discussed in this unit, rather than the silence being just eighth grade apathy.

He moved around to grab a stack of printouts from his desk to pass them out. "Good. What I'm passing out now is Gil Scott-Heron's 'The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.' It’s a poem, but also a sort of spoken-word song. Released in 1970, the title was a popular slogan among the Black Panthers — " His voice trailed off as he moved back to his desk, queueing up the song to play from YouTube.   
  
"We're going to have a listen to the song. Take notes as we listen. What you think he means, how the song makes you feel. When we're done, we'll talk about it, and for homework you'll write a two-page paper — "  _ That _ got a reaction from his students, a few of them groaning. "It's two pages, guys, it's not going to kill you and you'll have a week to work on it. Now, pay attention. It's important."

Just as he was about to click  _ play, _ a hand shot up in one of the middle rows. "Yes, Brayden?"    
  
If  _ someone _ was going to say something thoroughly dumb, thoroughly upsetting, it was  _ always _ Brayden. Student council vice-president, on the fast track to become some kind of, well, Kyle didn't know  _ much _ about football but the kid could get away with pretty much anything he wanted due to his expertise in the sport, even with PC in charge. Kyle  _ knew _ he would've hated his guts if he were in middle school himself. Hell, Kyle kind of  _ did _ . At least, he  _ really _ thought the kid's head was filled with as much air as any football, and he had absolutely no business being in an honors class at all. But, that wasn't something he could outright say, without losing his job. 

"Question, or...." Kyle trailed off, adjusting his glasses, ensuring that they fully covered his eyes as he stared at the slack-jawed kid in front of him.   
  
"Yeah, uh, Mr. B..." The first few words out of the kid's mouth drew a shuffling, a string of giggles from a cluster of girls near the back, one of whom popped her gum loud enough that the noise bounced off the walls.   
  
"Spit it out, Jade," Kyle said, faintly, keeping his glare on the girl as she rolled her eyes, and crossed the room to toss it in the garbage.   
  
"Mr. B," Brayden continued, slouching in his desk, "My dad's gonna be pi — uh, PO'ed if you make us listen to this. He's gonna say it's inappropriate or some shi— _ stuff,  _ and, like, I dunno. I'm pretty sure someone else's dad might, too?"   
  
Kyle allowed his jaw to clench for a split second before making his face as neutral as possible. "Your dad is certainly free to call me, or the principal, if he has any objections."

"But Mr. B — "   
  
Part of being a teacher,  _ especially _ for teenagers, was being skilled in not letting things get to him. Or at least, he couldn't show it. Couldn't react, no matter how frustrating a situation was, no matter how funny or  _ stupid _ a comment from a student was. He liked to think that he'd excelled in it over the years.   
  
"I cannot and will not make exceptions to lessons and assignments. If you're worried that someone might be upset that you're learning about this, it's all the more reason for you to be informed." Which was not something he needed to say to thirteen and fourteen year olds. As soon as it left his mouth, he knew there was a meeting with his supervisor in the near future. "Let's just not worry about it for now, alright."   
  
The song played. They had their discussion. The level of critical thinking from his students was about what he expected. 'He sounds angry.' 'I've heard of Xerox!' 'I think he wanted people to  _ do _ something.' But overall, it was a good discussion, and given the amount of time they had to work on their assignment, and the strong likelihood that they would be discussing it again on Monday, he wasn't too worried.    
  
"Why are you packing up?" He quirked a brow at his students who were putting away their belongings. "You're here for three more minutes." And he intended to be  _ that _ teacher who made sure every second of it was put to use.   
  
When the bell rang, denoting the end of the day, the students left quickly. That was fine, it was Friday. Kyle wanted to get out of there as much as they did. When that finally happened, he called for a lyft.   
  
He knew he where he was going — he knew he could walk it, but in this weather it was just a bit too far for it to be pleasant — but he didn't want to fly. Not when the point of this entire thing was to be  _ normal. _

When he arrived, however, his only problem was getting in without seeming suspicious, and finding exactly the right person to let him in. He hung around the exterior of the apartment building for a good ten minutes, earning a glare from a harried-looking young woman in scrubs as she buzzed herself in, letting the door latch behind her.  _ Great, _ he probably looked like a total and complete creep, was probably just drawing more attention to himself, probably just making everything  _ worse. _   
  
He futzed around on his phone for awhile, scrolling through his Facebook feed without really looking at any of the posts, as he leaned up against the brick exterior,  _ waiting. _ If he’d just  _ flown, _ everything would’ve been so much easier.... heaving a sigh, Kyle looked up, and found that the moment he did so, he was practically face-to-face with a guy in a parka, with long, stringy hair tied back into a low ponytail, exposing his unusually large forehead. He was pretty unfortunate-looking, really, but Kyle generally had enough sense about him to know whether or not someone was harmless.   
  
This guy was just... awkward, there was no way about it, given by how he breathed through his mouth and the general look of confusion in his eyes—but, underneath that, Kyle was sure there was nothing to worry about.   
  
Plus, the dude was dangling a set of keys in his hand, one of them being the same grey fob he’d noticed the woman in the scrubs use to get inside. “Lock yourself out?” the guy asked, smiling a crooked smile.

Kyle was more than willing to take advantage of this opportunity. "Yeah, actually I did."    
  
The strange-looking man's face lit up, as if he was delighted to be of some use. Perhaps Kyle was projecting, perhaps this guy really did have a useless enough existence that he'd go out of his way to open the front door and usher him inside.   
  
He just hoped that the guy would check his mail, or take the stairs or something. But no, the guy kept in step with him. Went as far as to strike up conversation with him.   
  
"Are you excited that it's the weekend? I am. I think I'm going to hang out with my friends the whole time."   
  
Kyle repeatedly jabbed the 'up' call button for the elevator. "Yeah. Weekends are great." His tone was clipped, hoping to relay that he wasn't into this conversation at all.   
  
But he continued as they both stepped in. Kyle pressed five, and the man didn't press another. "My friend, Nathan, showed me these photos of the special summer camp he went to."   
  
"That's nice."   
  
"Another friend showed me this video of her dog. He was wearing a shirt and glasses and sitting on a lawn mower. But it was somehow a cartoon and I don't know how she did that."   
  
Kyle almost had regrets. He should've just flown. Finally, the elevator doors opened and he headed down the hall. He'd made a point of looking for a  _ certain _ mailing address when he'd made his previous visit, so even if he'd never come this way before, he knew what door was the one he was looking for.   
  
514\. At the end of the hall. Kyle took a deep breath, ready to knock on it when he realized that the weird guy was still watching him.   
  
"I didn't realize you lived there! We're neighbors." The man sounded far too  _ thrilled _ about it, and it was a little unnerving.   
  
"Oh. Yeah. This is my place! Totally!" He laughed awkwardly, shifting intentionally as he tried to pretend to unlock the door with his own keys while attempting to tap on the door subtly with his foot.   
  
“Need some help?” The dude asked from across the hallway, his hand hovering on the doorknob of 517. “If you need to call Ms. Anderson to let you in, you can come over to my place while you wait. I have Connect Four!”   
  
_ Connect Four? _ Kyle laughed weakly, in what he hoped was a polite manner, instead of one that betrayed the utter confusion he felt from this interaction. “No, uh, just.... Just waiting for my, uh. My roommate? To let me in?”   
  
He  _ was _ home, Kyle knew this. Music, something angry, heavy on the drums and guitars and shouting vocals, could be heard, muffled, behind the door.... The thought that Craig wasn’t  _ alone _ was something Kyle hadn’t entertained, and he felt a wave of anxiety in his gut as he entertained the possibility.   
  
“I didn’t even know Craig had a roommate! My friend Nathan has four roommates.”

"Okay," Kyle said, it having sounded more like a question.   
  
The guy smiled. "He has four roommates, and a dog. I know you guys have a cat. I heard it meowing one day. But I didn't know  _ you _ lived here. My name is Kip. I work from — "   
  
Kyle tuned him out in favor of banging on the door with the side of his fist, sending reverberations across the hard, sturdy wood and, just as he began to really put his weight behind his knocks, the door swung open. Kyle stumbled, catching himself with his hand on the frame of the door before he could stumble face-first onto Craig, who...   
  
_ "Holy shit," _ Kyle found himself whispering under his breath at the sight before him. Craig was wearing basketball shorts and faded Denver PD t-shirt, the neck and sleeves deeply cut off to reveal his arms, the sides of his torso, the slightest tease of a nipple if he bent just the right way, and he was practically  _ glistening _ with sweat.   
  
He was so,  _ so _ fucking hot.   
  
His expression was something that Kyle couldn't place, but he did recognize a bit of amusement, of annoyance, of confusion. "Hello,  _ roommate," _ Craig muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this will likely be our update for the year, so we hope you enjoy it! We have more coming, and we're hoping to get our next installment up in early January after the holidays. For the rest of the month we're working on NYE-centric fics ( more Cryle & Steek ) and potentially some individual projects. Keep a look out for those if you're interested!
> 
> \- Alice/gD

"Come on in."

Kyle didn't hesitate, didn't tell Kip goodbye, though as Craig closed the door behind him, Kyle distinctly heard  _ hello, Craig Tucker! _ "That guy's a creep," he informed Craig, lingering just beside the doorway. He felt a little stupid for saying it at all, but he was at a loss. Between the weirdness of  _ Kip _ and hardly being able to process just how attracted he was to this man in front of him that he just couldn't think properly for a moment.   
  
"Tell me about it." Craig stretched his arms above his head before folding them, resting his laced fingers against the back of his head. Kyle was all too aware of this, and he felt like he was burning from deep within his skin. "So, why are you—”   
  
Before he could finish the question, Kyle found himself distracted by Craig's music choices and felt the immediate need to interrupt him. "You're listening to the  _ Dead Kennedys? _ Seriously? Do you even know who they  _ are _ are or this just some mindless dude-bro workout playlist—”

"I know who they are. Is that why you stopped by? To criticize my choice of music?" Craig quirked a brow and, just as soon as he was about to open his mouth and speak, to no doubt ask Kyle what, exactly, he was  _ doing _ there, the song faded into another, and Kyle, as always, couldn't resist his need to say something about  _ that, _ either.   
  
"Sex Pistols?  _ Really? _ That's fitting, for you." When Craig simply narrowed his eyes in response, Kyle took it as his cue to continue, toeing off his loafers and leaving them neatly on the mat in the entryway as he spoke. "You know they're totally just manufactured punk, right? They were created by this record executive, basically to make punk more accessible to the masses, and—"   
  
He was interrupted by strong fingers gripping his upper arms, and could feel the heat of Craig's hand even through his coat. The musky, heady smell of Craig's sweat mingled with his deodorant and cologne made Kyle feel practically dizzy as Craig leaned over him, blue eyes boring into him, and hissed, "Can't you just let people  _ enjoy _ things?"

His heart was racing, blood pumping through his veins, leaving him with that heady feeling he always got when he was around Craig, when he let him too close. It always led to poor decision making, like letting Craig touch him, allowing him to tug off his cowl, like showing up here  _ like this. _ "No.  _ Especially _ not when it's  _ you. _ "   
  
Craig growled, and somehow he was closer. Kyle refused to give into the weak feeling in his knees. "You're such a hypocrite. Bitching about  _ manufactured shit _ when you wear fake glasses."   
  
"Excuse you! These absolutely have a purpose."    
  
"Bull _ shi— _ " Craig's protest was cut off when Kyle leaned in, pressing their lips together.

He shouldn’t have done it. Story of Kyle’s fucking life— _ I shouldn’t, but I did. I shouldn’t, but I will. _ But it wasn’t as if he could  _ help _ it.   
  
Kyle hadn’t been lying on that night, two weeks ago, when he said there was something about the other man. Something he couldn’t get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. Something alluring, something simultaneously mysterious and familiar and comfortable. And there was the taste of him, the feel of taut muscles flexing under slick skin as Kyle none-too gently gripped onto Craig’s lower back, against that ugly, that  _ awful _ t-shirt, pulling him in. Perfect. He was perfect, he was  _ awful, _ he was  _ maddening, _ and he was going to be the veritable death of Kyle Broflovski.    
  
Craig melted against him, his mouth parting with a small groan in the back of his throat as he anchored his hands onto Kyle’s shoulders and kissed back, all heated and wet and  _ hungry. _ While it hadn’t come as a shock to Kyle, not exactly, that Craig neither pushed him away, nor demanded he leave the apartment, it  _ was _ a very welcome surprise when Craig, not breaking their contact, backed against the door, leaving himself effectively pinned against it.

Kyle dragged his tongue along Craig's bottom lip, nipped. When he deepened the kiss it was with a groan. Craig tightened his hold on him, drawing him in closer as their tongues worked against each other, as they explored and consumed one another as if their lives depended upon it.   
  
It certainly felt like it did, and in the heat of the moment, Kyle would've given anything to continue existing this way. He wanted to hold Craig close like this, keep him pressed against the door. Like this, he could feel every part of him, could feel Craig hard against him, and Kyle couldn't help but grind his hips, garnering some of that much needed friction.   
  
But it ended far too soon. As much as Kyle wanted to continue, he broke the kiss, gasping for air as if he were drowning. His hands smoothed over Craig's back, pupils blown.    
  
Craig's chest heaved. With the way those blue eyes were on him, Kyle knew that he was still feeling the same tension that he was feeling. He sounded breathless as he spoke. "So...Why are you here?"   
  
Kyle swallowed thickly. He knew why he was here. Craig knew. But he still tilted his head away, tugging away from Craig and heading toward the living room. "Not for you, that's for sure. Where's Midnight?"

“What? She’s, uh. I don’t know, somewhere.” Kyle could feel Craig’s eyes on him across the room, could sense the frustration, the need in Craig’s panted words. “She likes to, um. Lie on my bed,” Craig added, heavy footfalls on hardwood quickly approaching Kyle, who was studying a framed photograph on Craig’s bookshelf.   
  
It was a photograph that made him want to  _ run, _ or fly, either way his first instinct was to get out of there as fast as possible. And it wasn’t the setting. It wasn’t because the three men in the desert—two sitting, and one leaning against a ramshackle shed, wearing sandy-colored camouflage and sunglasses—had guns slung around their shoulders. It wasn’t because he could make out the C. TUCKER on the name tape on the standing man, could tell by the long neck, the shapely  brows, the canine tooth that stuck out a bit farther than the rest in this man’s crooked, weary-looking smile that this was  _ unmistakably _ a younger Craig. It wasn’t how Craig seemed to be looming over some guy whose chest read T. THERNEAU, nor how said sandy-blond-haired man was leaning into Craig’s leg.   
  
Kyle didn’t know T. THERNEAU, never heard of him, didn’t care— but the  _ third _ man was what made his chest tighten in near panic. He didn’t have to read C. DONOVAN on the chest to recognize the silly, ear-to-ear grin, the big ears, the cleft chin of  _ this _ person, but the moment he did, Kyle immediately knew that he was in over his head.   
  
_ He knows Clyde. Everything is going to be so fucked, _ Kyle thought, but, as he swallowed his anxiety the best he could, what came out of his mouth was, “So you were in the Army.”

"Enlisted after high school. Two tours in Afghanistan, one in Iraq."   
  
There was something in Craig's tone that Kyle couldn't quite place, and in another situation, he might have tried better to parse it out. But between his panic regarding Clyde, his kneejerk to  _ that _ institution as well—he just couldn't.    
  
He wasn't even  _ thinking _ when he snapped. "Well, that fucking explains  _ a lot. _ " And not in a good way.   
  
Kyle wasn't looking at Craig, but he could sense the change in demeanor, the glare directed right at him. He braced for an argument, but all he got was a muttered, "I'm taking a shower."   
  
The implication was more than clear as Craig stormed off, a door further down the hallway slamming in his wake. Kyle knew he'd overstayed his welcome, but he didn't let himself out. He should have—but.   
  
But he didn't feel inclined to listen to reason when it came to Craig.    
  
As soon as he heard the water turn on elsewhere, Kyle made himself even more at home. He tracked down Craig's cat, who was content enough to let him carry her around as he looked around Craig's room. The few photos in his hallway. His collection of movies and video games. He was studying that collection, stroking his hand along the purr machine's spine when Craig reemerged.   
  
Hair still damp, clean t-shirt and shorts somewhat clinging to his body. "You're still here."

“I’m still here,” Kyle confirmed, scratching Midnight’s head as she meowed, twisting in Kyle’s arms in apparent effort to get to Craig. He gently set her down on the floor, and she padded over to Craig, weaving in and out of his legs before scampering down the hall, her tags clinking.    
  
“She really does like you,” Craig mumbled, his face relaxing, harsh furrow in his brow softening as he moved past Kyle, brushing his hand on the small of his back before perching himself on the edge of his bed.

"She has good tastes, clearly." It was an attempt at a joke, but Kyle wasn't particularly known for being  _ funny, _ and it was worse when he didn't actually know Craig well, in any fundamental sense. Because the thing was, he knew he upset Craig... but he also wasn't going to apologize for his opinions.   
  
But if he could wade past that, and at least express that he felt bad for  _ upsetting Craig, _ well, he could do that. After a moment of hesitation, he moved closer until his knees pressed against Craig's. He brushed his fingers through the fringe that clung to Craig's forehead.    
  
Leaning in, inhaling the scent of his soap and shampoo, he pressed a kiss to his forehead.    
  
Which was too much, taking this too far because that was  _ too intimate, too personal. _ But it was hard to be logical where Craig was concerned. This was going to be his undoing, but he wanted to know Craig. He even wanted Craig to know  _ him, _ at least a little.

He could tell Craig wanted to say something, that he was processing through this bizarre, sudden situation, through Kyle barging his way into his home and life like he was a welcome guest, a old friend, something  _ more, _ even, rather than...  _ whatever _ this thing was between them.    
  
And there  _ was _ a thing, there was  _ something _ there. Something that shouldn’t be. Kyle knew it.  _ Craig _ knew it; it was in the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, nervously, the way the touch of his hands felt uncertain as he placed them on Kyle’s hips and pulled him in, pulled him  _ close _ until he was sitting along Craig in a straddle. It was especially in how Craig’s eyes blinked, slowly, in not defeat, but  _ acceptance, _ before Craig rubbed his thumbs against the small of Kyle’s back, and kissed him.

If only for a moment or two, if the world could fade off into non-existence, it would've been ideal. But this was close enough. Cupping his cheeks, Kyle kissed back. Slowly, savoring this moment that felt like they were teetering on something uncertain.    
  
Like if they took this any further than they already had, they'd slip into something even more uncertain, even more dangerous for so many reasons.   
  
But as Craig's arms wrapped around his back, pulling him somehow closer, Kyle took the plunge. Pushing Craig onto his back, he followed him, kissing him deeply and slowly, allowing one of his hands to drift along Craig's side as he felt Craig's roam over his back, eventually clenching his sweater.

"I  _ really _ should arrest you," Craig murmured against Kyle's lips, followed by a short, deep and, most importantly,  _ genuine _ laugh, the reverberation of which Kyle felt against his mouth and in his chest as Craig crashed his lips against Kyle's own once more. Jerking his hips upward, against Kyle's, who couldn't reign in his moan at the sensation, the obvious heat of the hardness through thin lounge shorts, Craig sucked on his lower lip, tugging gently with his teeth. He broke away with a groan. "But you're making it really difficult, you know that?"   
  
Long fingers curled against the hem of Kyle's shirt, and Kyle sat back, grinding his ass against Craig's hips with a  _ purpose, _ eliciting a gasp of a moan from Craig, who thrust upwards all hard and intense as he peeled off Kyle's button-up and sweater vest in one fluid motion, flinging it across the room.   
  
"I'm well aware," Kyle replied, slowly and huskily, sliding a hand underneath Craig's shirt, gliding none-too-gently against the contours of muscle which comprised Craig's really,  _ really _ fucking perfect abs.  _ Jesus, _ he was built, and Kyle was about to say as such... But, as he watched those icy blue eyes take in his own body, sizing him both as if he were a  _ meal _ or something, and like Craig was afraid to touch him, somehow, Kyle was caught between arousal, and utter  _ self-consciousness. _   
  
And Kyle never did well with feeling self-conscious. Heat pooling in his groin and spreading across his face, he grasped each of Craig's wrists in his hands, swiftly removing them from where they gripped the tops of his thighs, and quickly,  _ roughly _ pinned them against the bed.

This was  _ better, _ he decided. Craig looked good pinned like this, and having him this way was more familiar, reminiscent of many of the other times they had their encounters. Except this was still different. On a bed, with Craig attempting to undress him, with the unspoken but obvious intent to take this further than either of them previously allowed.   
  
There was a prick of apprehension about that remaining still. Not for the lack of want, though, because  _ fuck _ did he want him.    
  
Opting to distract himself from that feeling, he rocked his hips, relishing in the friction he could feel even through his work slacks, in the raspy sounds Craig made, where he sounded like he was  _ so desperate _ for more as he writhed beneath him.   
  
"You like this, huh," he murmured, leaning down enough to nip and suck at a spot on Craig's neck. He'd get Craig out of his clothes soon, but he wanted him melted like putty first.

"Yes," hissed Craig, his hips jerking upwards, his body stiffening as he half-fought against Kyle's grasp. Both knew full well that he had no intentions of, no desire to break away—it was done as a  _ challenge, _ as if to say  _ fuck me up, do it, I can handle it. _   
  
Kyle wondered, for a split second, if  _ he _ could handle this. Not the sex. The sex was, well. It was just  _ sex, _ or at least with literally almost any other person in the known  _ universe _ it'd be just sex but this wasn't  _ about _ that, not fully. This was a sealing the inevitable, this was a finality, this was the equivalent of the earth hurtling itself into the fucking  _ sun _ but  _ god _ did he ever want this. God did he know that Craig wanted it just as much, if not perhaps more, than Kyle himself.   
  
He decided, then, that could deal with the repercussions later.   
  
Kyle dug his nails into Craig's skin, dragging his tongue along his neck until he reached the junction where it met shoulder, upon which he fixed his teeth,  _ hard, _ biting into the muscle there. Craig's resultant keen only served to egg Kyle on, dead set on drawing out many similar,  _ better _ noises from the man before he'd surely slip out into the cool, thin mountain air at this evening's end.   
  
He'd sucked hard enough that blood was pooling at Craig's tan skin, enough for a round, red mark to begin to form, but not  _ quite _ enough for him to taste it. Which, really, was a pity. He wanted Craig to unravel, wanted to make a mess of him in every which way possible, and what he wanted most of all was to hear Craig finally  _ ask _ for it.   
  
"Tell me what you want from me, Lieutenant," Kyle whispered against his ear, the implication and weight of the question, the many directions it could take, the many possible answers not lost on him. Craig shivered when Kyle darted out his tongue against the curve of his ear and licked, neatly.

"I want you to fuck me." Craig worried at his bottom lip, but any sense of composure he had left dissipated when Kyle timed another one of those sharp nips with a roll of his hips. "I want you in me."   
  
Kyle felt a swell of pride, of  _ power, _ in Craig's willingness to plead for him more like this. Licking his lips, he snuck a hand between them, running his fingertips along either side of Craig's cock. "That's not good enough, Lieutenant. Use your words."   
  
The response was a frustrated strangled noise, a throbbing against his fingers. "Fucking— _ Please. _ Please, Kyle," he pleaded. "I need more."   
  
"You're a such a little slut for me, aren't you,  _ officer? _ "

_ "Kyle," _ Craig whined, voice breaking, eyes shut tight, his mouth dropping open into a strained, ragged gasp as Kyle gripped his cock over his shorts, circling his thumb at that place where shaft and head aligned, a spot that Kyle knew would cause Craig to squirm, and moan, and throb and leak.... And Kyle got it, got  _ more _ than he'd even hoped when Craig opened his eyes, fixated a sure, certain stare into Kyle's own and said, in that low, nasal, and yet somehow still so  _ gorgeous _ voice of his, "Yes, I am. Just for you."   
  
This moment of self-assured calm from Craig didn't last very long, given that Kyle chose that moment to release his hold on Craig's other wrist in favor of hitching up his hips and quickly yanking off his shorts.  _ Fuck, _ his cock.... it made Kyle's mouth positively  _ water. _ He'd always had a thing for uncut guys and this.... Kyle hoped Craig didn't see the blush that surely graced his face, as the only thought that popped into his head was that Craig could  _ absolutely _ do porn, or something, being hung like that.

_ One day, I'm going to take that. _ He would be remiss to miss that opportunity, but it wasn't happening today. Today... today he felt an almost animalistic need to  _ claim, _ to mark Craig up, to fuck him so thoroughly that he wouldn't think of another man.    
  
It was absolutely egotistical.   
  
But if Craig was slowly going to take over his subconscious thoughts, he wanted to ensure that it was a mutual feeling.   
  
"Maybe I'll give you what you want," he responded, finally, as he directly wrapped his hand around Craig's cock, indulging in the sensation of that excess skin moving against hard, throbbing muscle. "Since you asked so nicely."

_ "Please." _   
  
Kyle hummed and leaned back against his heels, admiring the view of Craig against his dark blue comforter. Illuminated by lamplight, the contours of his abs casted shadows in a way that somehow made him look even hotter. Even more lovely—   
  
He cleared his throat, pushing that thought aside. "Finish undressing and get on your hands and knees." Craig seemed eager to comply, and once Kyle had Craig as he wanted, he ran his hands along the backs of Craig's firm thighs, squeezing his ass.    
  
Craig pushed back against him, as if that would make Kyle touch him more firmly. But it didn't. Not yet. Rather, Kyle got to his feet, already knowing exactly where Craig kept his supplies. There were merits to being a snoop, even if he'd never admit it.   
  
"Don't move. Don't even  _ think _ about it. I'll know if you do."

"Seriously?" Craig asked, brows rising as he glanced over his shoulder at Kyle, who caught his eyes as his hand made contact with the pull on Craig's top dresser drawer. "Is that, you know, part of your...." Craig cleared his throat as he trailed off, biting his lip. "Your powers?"   
  
"My  _ powers?" _  Kyle snorted, turning his back so that Craig wouldn't be able to see just how badly he wanted to burst into laughter and he didn't know  _ why, _ because it wasn't even  _ funny; _ it was a legitimate question, Kyle supposed, but maybe it wasn't out of humor at all. Maybe it was because this situation, whatever it was, whatever  _ they _ were was so fucked up, so morbidly  _ absurd _ that laughter was the only reaction.    
  
What he was about to do was  _ beyond _ playing with fire. It was utterly  _ irresponsible, _ it was throwing himself off a ten-story building without the ability of flight. It was  _ careless, _ like he may as well have locked himself in a jail cell for the rest of his natural life and asked someone to throw the key into the mouth of an active  _ fucking _ volcano but, try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to  _ leave, _ to stop wanting it. Wanting  _ him. _   
  
"It's not," Kyle said, pushing aside a couple pairs of rolled-up socks and promptly finding exactly what he was looking for. "Part of my mutation. It's just. You know. I was trying to sound, well.  _ You _ know."   
  
_ Smooth, Kyle. _

"Oh." Craig's tone was something that Kyle couldn't place. It was so nasally, so simple, that Kyle was entirely unsure if that was relief or disappointment. In the grand scheme, it didn't matter. Why should he care about what Craig thought his abilities?    
  
The worst case scenario was that Craig might think he was an abomination. But he'd be far from the first to think that.    
  
If he could actually read Craig's mind, he would've known what he was thinking. Kyle wasn't a stranger to self-loathing fucks.   
  
Pushing the thought aside, he made his way back to the bed, tube of lube and a condom in hand. As he settled behind Craig, he spoke, "Remind me how much you wanna get fucked, Lieutenant."

Even with his face half-hidden, pressed against his pillow, the look Craig gave him—with his dark eyelashes half-covering blown-black eyes, his eyebrows knit close together and his mouth slightly open, glistening with spit after he darted out his tongue and _gasped,_ so quietly—told Kyle everything he needed to know, everything that he was well aware Craig could never bring himself to say. It caused a pull in Kyle's groin, a heat spreading across his face and into his chest; his heart thumped at the thought that he might fuck up, might say something just as stupid as what Craig had told him that night just a few weeks ago.  
  
Kyle couldn't deny that Craig was fucking _beautiful._   
  
Kyle brushed his hand against the back of Craig's thigh, through sparse, dark hair, then up the slight, yet firm curve of his ass. "You want this."   
  
Both knew it wasn't a question, but Craig nodded, damp hair brushing against his pillowcase, and his shoulders heaved in a shudder as he whispered, "Yes."

_ "Fuck," _ Kyle breathed. He was merely confirming the obvious, but it was so hot to hear Craig say it. He could've completely lost it on that alone, just being able to hear Craig's utter  _ need. _ Setting the condom aside, he squeezed some of the lube into his hand.   
  
Craig must have recognized the click of the tube, as he all but rocked back against Kyle, nearly  _ grinding. _ Kyle lost his mind for a moment, but he caught enough of what Craig pleaded to him. " _ Just do it. _ Don't use your fingers, just stick it in me. I'm ready for you, I can take it."   
  
Kyle wasn't going to object to that, and quickly shift gears, properly make use of the condom and lube, hissing as he pushed into him.

Kyle moaned, fingers grasping, digging into Craig's hips as he slowly sunk into that tight heat, breath hitching in a shudder as he buried himself to the hilt. And, underneath him, Craig's hands clenched into the sheets, tangling into them as he pressed his face into the pillow with a low, muffled whine that only made Kyle feel  _ impatient, _ made him want to drive himself into Craig— _ Lieutenant Tucker _ —all fierce and hard and unrelenting.   
  
And it was funny, really, that Craig had accused  _ Kyle _ of possessing the ability to read minds, when he was the one who tossed another one of those glances over his shoulder, one that made Kyle's chest feel like it was going to burst, and caught Kyle's eyes with those intense, narrowed blues. It was like he was looking not at him, but into him. "Okay,  _ okay, _ go slow," Craig gasped, his mouth opening in a ragged gasp as he pushed back into Kyle.   
  
"Want me to go  _ slow, _ Lieutenant?" Kyle punctuated this remark with deep, sudden thrust of his hips, causing Craig to groan, to twist his soft, sky blue sheets into his hands. "You want me to make love to you, or something, you sick fuck?"

"No, I just— _ fuck, _ Kyle, you feel so good—"    
  
It would have been a lie to say that Kyle didn't appreciate what Craig was saying, that he didn't thrive on the praise. But it wasn't what he wanted to hear, not right now.  Reaching up, he grasped the back of Craig's neck, grip firm as he held himself steady. "You talk too much."   
  
At least when Craig spoke again, it was something incomprehensible, something mindless and guttural as Kyle popped his hips, building up a rough pace that was fitting for the dynamic they'd curated over the past months of cat-and-mouse.

"I know you don't  _ want _ me to go slow," Kyle breathed, dragging his hand up to tangle in Craig's silky, still somewhat damp hair, yanking his head back none-too-gently. "I've seen what you do. How  _ hard _ you like it." He leaned down, nipping his teeth against the back of Craig's neck, then onto his ear, knowing that, whether he liked it or not, the fresh citrus scent of Craig's shampoo would be imprinted in his brain for weeks _. _   
  
Craig bucked into him, circling his hips to meet every thrust with equal fervor, gasping at the sensation of teeth on skin. Kyle was quick enough to catch that Craig was about to reach behind him, to desperately grasp onto Kyle's ass as if there were some possible way he could guide him in  _ deeper, _ and captured Craig's wrists in his hands, quickly and roughly pinning him to the bed. His thrusts became such that they were flush against each other, Kyle nearly flat onto Craig's broad, muscular back, their skin slick with sweat as they frantically moved together.   
  
"I know," Kyle repeated, well aware that his breath against Craig's neck was driving him absolutely wild _ , _ "I see you fuck yourself. I fucking—" He gave Craig's wrists a crushing squeeze as he snapped his hips— "I fucking  _ love _ watching you make a mess of yourself, Lieutenant."

Craig scoffed, but it wasn’t  _ really _ a scoff. It was a shudder, a gasp. “And you say  _ I _ talk too much,” he muttered, voice all husky and thick with arousal. “Could still arrest your ass,  _ Kite.” _   
  
Kyle bit him on the shoulder, sharply, hard enough to make the other man let out a yelp, before dragging his tongue up Craig’s neck in a languid lick. “I could  _ kill _ you,  _ Craig. _ I could kill you, right now, and you’re just letting this happen.”

Craig's response was a resounding moan, one throaty and desperate, one that made it completely obvious that he was far from deterred from what Kyle said. He rocked back against him desperately.   
  
He liked it. He was  _ getting off on it— _   
  
Kyle bore into him deliberately, angling his hips in a manner that garnered even more of a response as he reached down and wrapped his hand around Craig's cock. "You're so stupid. A stupid, filthy  _ pig. _ I could end you so  _ easily _ and it's exactly what you deserve."

Kyle felt bitten nails scratching the length of his spine before he noticed Craig move his freed arm behind him, then Craig's hand twining in his hair, gently,  _ too _ gently for someone being fucked as hard, as  _ brutally _ as he was. And he practically whimpered, thrusting into Kyle's hand, back onto his  _ cock, _ as Kyle stroked him firm and quick and purposefully.    
  
"You deserve it," Kyle hissed through his teeth, the rhythm of his hips becoming stuttered, erratic, but no  less rough as familiar heat curled in the base of his spine. "You're  _ trash, _ Tucker. You're  _ worthless. _ I'll  _ end _ you, I'll throw you out. Just like people like you—"   
  
"Gonna come," Craig grunted, his hand tightening in Kyle's hair as he angled his head sideways, pulling Kyle in for a sloppy, heated kiss.

"Yeah, you are, you're gonna make a mess of your bed, make a total sty of it," he responded, each word punctuated with a groan as he fucked himself to completion. The way Craig lost it, the way he moaned his name as if his life depended upon it—   
  
It was enough for Kyle to lose himself.    
  
And as soon as they were both spent, he was pulling out and away. The moment he'd removed the condom, he was tucking himself back into his pants, buttoning and zipping them up. He'd almost be completely presentable, were it not for how flushed and sweaty he was, the way his curls clung to his forehead.

_ "Fuck, _ you're good," Craig groaned, folding his arms underneath his head as he rolled onto his back and to the other side of the bed, avoiding the conspicuous wet spot upon his comforter. And when Kyle bent down to recover his shirt and sweater vest from the hardwood floor, he could feel Craig's eyes on his back, following him across the room and to the doorway as if Craig  _ himself _ were the one with eyes that could burn and destroy. That obvious stare certainly made the skin on Kyle's neck tingle and prickle, and it was a sensation that he could hardly bear.   
  
He spun on his heel, face flushed and heart  _ aching, _ which was a feeling he neither excepted, nor  _ wanted _ in the first place. He scoffed, trailing his hand to rest upon the wood of the doorframe, leaning against it. "Well,  _ Lieutenant, _ you—"   
  
"Do you want some food?"   
  
_ "What?" _

"Are you  _ hungry? _ " The question came with a roll of Craig's eyes, something that Kyle didn't miss at all. "I was working out before you showed up, we did  _ that... _ If you don't want anything, whatever, but I'm gonna order burritos."    
  
Kyle hesitated for a moment, torn with indecision. It was so  _ unlike _ himself to be this way. He'd always been self-assured and confident but this... This. He felt like he was on a small boat on the stormy seas, in danger of capsizing at any moment.   
  
"Yeah. Yeah, sure. I can eat."

"Okay." Craig swung his legs off the side of the bed, rolling his shoulders and swinging his arms open into a stretch as he rose to his feet with a satisfied groan, arching his head back as he pulled on one wrist, and then another. A tiny half-smile tugged on Kyle's lips as he realized that Craig somehow reminded him of a big, lanky, human version of his cat.   
  
Craig crossed the room, pulling a pair of lounge pants and a plain grey, hoodless sweatshirt out of a dresser drawer, quickly and methodically clothing himself without as much as one word to Kyle.

Kyle wandered back into the living room. It felt different, being here now. Was it because he was somewhat welcome now? Or just because this wasn't his space at all? After a moment of hesitation, he settled on Craig's futon, on that same spot he'd sat in some time before.    
  
Almost immediately, a furry black mass joined him with a  _ mrrr. _ Midnight bowed her head, pressing her face against the side of Kyle's thigh and flopped onto her stomach. That was when he made the rookie mistake of rubbing his hand over her belly. " _ Ow, _ " he muttered as the claws of her hindquarters dug into the soft skin protecting the underside of his arm.   
  
Of course it was at that moment that Craig reemerged from his bedroom, when Kyle was nursing his arm, watching the small pinprick of blood rush to the surface. "You asked for that," he commented, joining him on the futon. There was a space between them, for which Kyle was grateful, but the weirdness of it all made him sit more stiffly. "You good with Señor Burritos?"   
  
"As long as I can get pueblo chile on it, I don't care where it comes from."  This was normal. There was nothing weird about it.  _ That _ was why his palms were sweaty, why his leg couldn't stop shaking.

“Okay. What kind,” Craig asked—it sounded more like a statement, as so many of Craig’s questions always did—as he snatched his laptop off the coffee table, crossing his legs ankle-over-knee and pulled up the website. “Chicken or beef or what.”   
  
“Uh. Chicken? I guess.” Kyle swallowed nervously, thickly, rubbing his perspiring palm upon his dress pants and trying to look everywhere except at the man next to him. Or that  _ photograph. _ Which really left the turned-off television, which meant that he could still see Craig reflected dully in the black mirror of its surface and that just didn’t make  _ anything _ better at all. He jiggled his leg, deciding that he’d just stare between at the empty water bottle on Craig’s coffee table and the floor, as heard a few clicks of the computer’s touchpad from next to him, and the snap of the laptop being shut.   
  
“All right. Chicken. Pueblo chile, and I got chips. And Coke. If you want some...or whatever.”

"That's fine."    
  
The answer seemed to be enough for Craig, as after he tapped away at his computer for a few more moments, he discarded it. Silence filled the room, and it seemed to Kyle that he was the only one that was bothered by it. Craig sprawled out as much as he could without encroaching on Kyle's spot, closing his eyes as he relaxed.   
  
They remained that way until the buzzer sounded, indicating that the delivery person needed to be let in. Craig was languid in his movements as he got up to let the them up, and once the bag of food was in his hand, he set it down on the coffee table. "Do you want something to drink?"   
  
"Oh. Uh. Water is fine."   
  
"You sure?"   
  
"Mhm."

“Good. I didn’t actually want to share my soda,” Craig tossed out as he crossed to the kitchen, a trace of  _ humor _ evident in his voice that made Kyle’s heart feel like it was taking up a permanent residence somewhere in his throat. And, upon his return, after setting an unopened water bottle in front of Kyle—who could’ve, perhaps  _ should’ve _ made a comment about how wasteful that was but he, for once, couldn’t find the words—Craig sat  _ closer, _ leaving but a few inches of space between them.   
  
Kyle wanted to lean into the other man almost as much as he wanted to fly away.

The burrito was a decent distraction, at least, and Kyle couldn't deny that he was hungry. The silence continued, until Craig decided to speak. He could take or leave conversation during meals, except right now—   
  
"Can I ask you something?"   
  
"I'm not helping you for your investigations, Tucker."    
  
Craig waved his free hand. "No, not that. Your glasses. What's up with them? They look good on you but I know you don't need them to see."

“Oh.” Kyle took a swig of water, smacking his lips with a tiny  _ ahh _ at the end.    
  
He could do this. He could talk about  _ this _ without revealing too much, he was sure. It would at least be a distraction from this awkward...  _ whatever _ that hung in the air between them, something that buzzed like static with the fact that they’d just taken a leap off a proverbial cliff, with what they’d  _ done, _ even with what they were currently  _ doing. _   
  
“My cousin—he’s an aerospace engineer,” Kyle said, between bites, “Made them for me. They’re like phase... I don’t know, four or something, of this prototype he actually created when he was in high school. This  _ thing _ of mine—” he gave a shrug— “Has been happening since I was thirteen, and my mother was getting tired of me blowing up computers. And walls. And, you know. Stuff. I don’t really know the science, offhand, but the material makes it so that it if I get upset when I’m t—“ He felt his face go red, nearly dropping his burrito.  _ That _ he couldn’t reveal. Not  _ yet. _ “So my lasers don’t fuck things up if I get pissed off at work, or whatever.”   
  
Craig was observing him with genuine, thoughtful interest. “Really. That’s fascinating, actually. We could use something like that on the—“   
  
“Absolutely not,” Kyle all but snapped, narrowing his eyes.   
  
“Yeah, whatever. Cops bad, crime good, I know the drill.” The sarcasm in Craig’s voice edged on playful, and Kyle hated himself for realizing that it made him want to  _ kiss _ him.   
  
“Not even that. Not  _ just _ that. My cousin...” Kyle chuckled before taking another drink of water. “He  _ sucks. _ I’m grateful he made these, but like hell if I’m going speak with him to get details. I try not to contact him outside of family obligations.”

"That's understandable." At least Craig didn't try to pry further. Kyle didn't like the idea of talking about his cousin more than necessary. He knew him too well, had spent far too many miserable summers with him over the years. By just mentioning him, he could hear his voice in his head, could smell his eczema lotion—   
  
Hell no, he needed something else to talk about. "So. Do you really like the Dead Kennedys?"   
  
A syllable escaped Craig's lips when Kyle felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Whatever he was going to say fell to the wayside, and Kyle immediately knew that it was because of the name that flashed on his screen. "Who's Sheila Broflovski? Your girlfriend?"   
  
Somehow he managed to restrain himself, only making a strangled noise as he slid his finger over the screen to reject the call. "No."

“Wife?” Craig crumpled up his burrito wrapper and tossed it in the empty bag, before wiping his hands on his sweatpants like some kind of  _ savage, _ and reached for his remote.   
  
_ That _ left Kyle torn between absolute revulsion at the question, and relief that Craig had  _ finally _ switched on his television—some background noise would do him good. All he could do to cope with those two very conflicting emotions was sputter a laugh.   
  
Craig raised a single well-maintained brow, shooting Kyle a sidelong glance. “Is that your deal? Got a wife at home, don’t know how to handle being a fag, so you go out, blow shit up with your murder eyes, fuck a couple cops?”   
  
“Dude! What?” Kyle laughed, earnestly, at Craig’s assumption. “No. No, I definitely know how to handle being a... Being gay. I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a wife... or a boyfriend, or. Um. Husband,” he added, as an awkward, unneeded afterthought, which caused his throat to feel scratchy despite having almost drained his bottled water.

"Good," Craig said, after a moment, resting an arm on the back of the futon as Netflix loaded up a move whose title Kyle didn't catch. "Because I don't play that game."    
  
"Look, I'm a lot of things, but I'm not that kind of shithead. Why are you putting on a movie?" That was weird, wasn't it? That made things seem a little... not what this was.

Craig shrugged. “It was quiet in here.”   
  
Kyle didn’t know whether he should leap out the window, sweater vest and all, politely excuse himself and say goodbye like this was some sort of  _ normal _ hookup or do what he really wanted to do, for whatever  _ dumb, fucked-up reason, _ which was to press against that weird _ , _ problematic  _ fuck _ of a guy next to him, to rest his hand on his thigh and breathe in the residual, intoxicating scent of sex that surely still clung to that tanned skin underneath that sweatshirt....   
  
And it didn’t matter, he supposed, which decision he was going to make, because Craig draped his arm across Kyle’s back, effectively making it for him.   
  
“Stick around if you want. I don’t give a shit either way,” Craig said, almost too casually as his hand squeezed Kyle’s shoulder.

His heart was racing as if it threatened to lurch up his throat. He should've just stuck with his gut and left, but he couldn't deny that the place where Craig's hand rested felt warm. And when he let himself lean against him, even just a little, he couldn't deny that this was comfortable.   
  
Even if there was part of him that was still threatening to flee.   
  
However, the grainy dust storm on the television, the gunfire and the weird techno western rock playing in the background caught his attention. "Only 'cause the movie's already started."   
  
The opening sequence ended, panning instead to a bustling western town. "Shit, this movie's old."   
  
Craig shifted, angling himself to look over at Kyle. "What do you mean? This movie was like my sexual awakening. Emilio Estevez? God _ damn. _ "   
  
"Uh. Old as in," he started, pressing against Craig as he fished his phone out of his pocket to google the release date of  _ Young Guns. _ "it came out two years before I was even born."

After he shoved his phone back into his pocket, Kyle made no effort to scoot away from Craig. And the other man must’ve taken this as some kind of signal, some kind of go-ahead, and scooted over, closing all distance between them. Kyle found himself letting out this  _ sound _ underneath his breath, some content little half-groan in the back of his throat as Craig’s hand traveled from his shoulder, to his hair.   
  
“Oh,” Craig said, twining his fingers into Kyle’s curls, “I was. Hm, seven? Eight? Something like that. I used to run around saying I was going to marry him. Parents weren’t too surprised when I finally came out.”

"God, you're so fucking old." Kyle's tone was dry, but the snort that came in response was all he needed to know that Craig understood it was a joke. For some time, Kyle kept his attention on the television.   
  
It was the willful sort of concentration, the sort where  he felt like if he paid attention to anything else, something bad would happen. But what was the worst that could happen? He'd already fucked up with giving into  _ this, _ and it was going to be his undoing.   
  
Especially when Craig murmured. "You have nice hair."

“Why are you acting like this?“ Kyle snapped, back stiffening, although the sensation of Craig’s hand in his hair was so distracting, so  _ nice, _ that he didn’t pull away. He shouldn’t have come. He really,  _ really _ fucking shouldn’t have come and he— _ they _ — shouldn’t have done what they’d done but there was no turning back  _ now... _ and even if he did try and ignore it, try and push out of mind the fact that Craig was on the fast track to  _ knowing _ him, that he’d shared  _ dinner _ with the guy...   
  
Even if he tried to do that, Kyle just  _ couldn’t _ ignore how good it felt to be pressed up against the other man like this. He sighed, sucking on his lower lip as he leaned into the touch.   
  
_ God, this was bad. _   
  
Craig took a moment to speak, and when he did, his voice came a low, even rumble. “Because I made a decision.”   
  
“What decision is that,” Kyle murmured, allowing his hand to drift to Craig’s thigh.   
  
“If you’re going to start coming over here when I’m off-duty, like a normal person, like what I assume is your normal self.” Craig took a breath, exhaling sharply, nervously through his nose. “If you’re going to do that, then I am going to treat you like any other man I’d like to get to know.”

His heart rate accelerated to the point where he felt like his ears were throbbing. They were certainly burning, and undoubtedly Craig knew that given the lighting in the room. It was flattering, that he said that but—   
  
But Kyle couldn't shake off that paranoia. The uncertainty that there  _ was _ an 'off duty' for a cop. Even if they just fucked, and were essentially  _ cuddling _ while watching a movie. "Oh. This... this is me." That jittery feeling in his leg was back again, but he was distracted from another buzz in his pocket.   
  
It could've been Ike, or something otherwise important, so he didn't feel bad for pulling it out again. Except he wound up having regrets immediately. "Who is Kip Drordy— _ wait. _ How the fuck is your neighbor sending me a friend request on Facebook? I didn't even tell him my name."

Craig snorted. “I dunno. He works with computers, or something. I said no when he tried to add me. Funny, though—I’ve tried to find you, and came up with jack shit.”   
  
Kyle didn’t miss the slight shift of Craig’s body, the bend of his neck as he tried to get a glimpse of Kyle’s phone. His jaw clenched as he hit the lock screen, shoving it back into his pocket as best he could.   
  
This had to be a ruse. A plot to get information on him, to get him to divulge any shred of evidence important to the investigation. To putting Kyle behind bars. But....   
  
_ But. _ With the way Craig continued to stroke his hair, the way he leaned into him, with his head on Kyle’s shoulder, practically  _ nuzzling _ that angular, stubbly,  _ incredibly _ handsome face against him... Kyle really,  _ truly _ wasn’t sure.   
  
Kyle didn’t enjoy being unsure.

As the film continued its rising action, as it headed toward its resolution, he sat rigidly on the futon. Craig became heavier, his breath ended out, and it became more than obvious that he'd drifted off.   
  
Especially when the movie ended, and Craig groaned in protest as Kyle shifted away from him. But he just had to get out of here, before he made another bad choice. He needed fresh air, he needed to do something to  _ discharge _ the tension he felt.   
  
"I gotta go," he told him, getting to his feet. When Craig's response was an incomprehensible sound, Kyle sighed. "C'mon, I'll help you to bed."

With a grunt, Craig curled on his side, his long legs drawn so they didn’t dangle off the edge of the futon, his arms folded underneath his head. It was obvious Craig had no intention of moving at all.   
  
“Alright, dude.” Kyle knew, if it were  _ him, _ he personally wouldn’t want to sleep the night on a futon without a pillow or blanket. He was just looking at it objectively, really. Craig could’ve been  _ anyone; _ he didn’t take light steps toward Craig’s bedroom for exactly those things because he  _ cared _ for him, or anything.   
  
Midnight was curled into a crescent on one of the pillows, and lifted her head, her moon-like, glowing eyes looking right into Kyle as she gave a small meow.   
  
“Hey,” Kyle nodded at the cat, grabbing a pillow, and the fleece throw from the foot of Craig’s bed, and Midnight meowed again.   
  
He could’ve sworn the cat sounded sad, somehow.   
  
Kyle tucked the bedding under an arm, using the opposite hand to give her head a scratch. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.” He felt his heart skip a beat as soon as he said that. 

_ Shit. _ Now he’d  _ have _ to return.

He gingerly placed the blanket over Craig once he was back in the living room, tucked his head under the pillow. But as soon as that was done, he wasted no time in gathering his things. The moment his coat and shoes were on, he was out of that apartment, briskly walking to the end of the hall.   
  
He pressed the down button on the elevator, but when it didn't come immediately, and he so  _ keenly _ felt the urge to get away from here as quickly as possible, he opened the window in that corridor.    
  
Diving out, he propelled himself into the night sky, the rush of cool air being exactly what he needed. But he couldn't deny that it wasn't enough. He needed to break something or some _ one. _

He tucked his glasses into the front pocket of his messenger bag and, as he zoomed over downtown Denver, going higher,  _ higher, _ high enough to feel the inside of his nostrils tighten, crystallize with frost, his cheeks and nose and the tips of his fingers so cold that they almost burned, he screamed.   
  
And, when he did, a flash of red illuminated the night sky.   
  
He paused, hovering in midair, just beneath the clouds, chest heaving and heart pounding and the corners of his eyes stinging with wet and cold. Maybe one day he’d get close enough to touch the clouds, to just nestle inside one like it were a comforting, fluffy blanket instead of something that would maybe, possibly kill him, being that high up.   
  
He’d gotten close enough to other things that would, could, fucking  _ should _ kill him already. With a shout, a guttural growling noise from somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he headed west, toward the warehouse.   
  
And he knew, deep in his gut, exactly what he needed to do.

**Author's Note:**

> We can be found on tumblr: [@thaumatroping](https://thaumatroping.tumblr.com/) & [@super-craig-is-gay](https://super-craig-is-gay.tumblr.com/). Hit us up any time!


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